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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT; 



®\)t IXtomint literature Series 



SELECTIONS FOR STUDY 
AND MEMORIZING 



1% 

POETRY AND PROSE 

/ 2 $ 



PRESCRIBED BY THE NEW YORK STATE EDUCATION 

DEPARTMENT IN THE COURSE OF STUDY AND 

SYLLABUS FOR ELEMENTARY SCHOOLS 

1910 



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BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO 
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 



SUGGESTIONS TO TEACHERS 

First, Second, Third, and Fourth Years. "Children 
should memorize the poems given. The poem should be 
read aloud by the teacher several times. It should be 
talked over with the pupils and the leading ideas under- 
stood. For example, the first stanza of the 'Rock-a-by 
Lady' announces the coming of the lady with her dreams. 
The second and third stanzas tell just what dreams she 
brings, and the fourth stanza tells how a child may obtain 
those dreams. This conversation will call up many associ- 
ations and prove a valuable help to the memory." 

Fifth, Sixth, Seventh, and Eighth Years. "The poems 
learned in lower grades should be recalled and used in new 
relations. When Macdonald's 'The Wind and the Moon* 
is taught, recall 'The Wind* of Stevenson or Rossetti's 
'Who has Seen the Wind?' The pupil will see the old 
poem in a new light and appreciate it more deeply." 
|* From the Course of Study and Syllabus for Elementary 
Schools of the State of New York, 1910. 



COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 



CCLA280783 






a 







CONTENTS 



FIRST YEAR 

All Things Beautiful. Ceci'Z F. Alexander 1 

Rock-a-By Lady. Eugene Field 2 

Making a House. Josephine P. Peabody 3 

The Wind. Christina G. Rossetti 3 

O Lady Moon. Christina G. Rossetti 4 

What Does the Bee Do ? Christina G. Rossetti 4 

The Sunbeams. Emilie Poulsson 4 

The Wind. Robert Louis Stevenson 5 

Where Go the Boats. Robert Louis Stevenson 6 

Foreign Children. Robert Louis Stevenson 7 

Mother Goose Rhymes 8 

SECOND YEAR 

"One, Two, Three." Henry Cuyler Runner 15 

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod. Eugene Field 17 

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat. Edward Lear 18 

The Brown Thrush. Lucy Larcom 20 

Seven Times One. Jean Ingelow 20 

Lady Moon. Lord Houghton 22 

The Journey. Josephine P. Peabody 22 

The Wonderful W 7 orld. W. B. Rands 24 

How Many Seconds in a Minute ? Christina G. Rossetti ... 24 

America. Samuel F. Smith 25 

My Shadow. Robert Louis Stevenson 26 

The Swing. Robert Louis Stevenson 27 

THIRD YEAR 

Marjorie's Almanack. Thomas Bailey Aldrich 29 

O Little Town of Bethlehem. Phillips Brooks 30 

November. Alice Cary 32 



iv CONTENTS 

Praying and Loving. Samuel Taylor Coleridge "~. . . ~.~ "*. '. 33 

A Child's Prayer. Matilda B. Edwards 33 

A Boy's Song. James Hogg 34 

The Violet. Lucy Larcom 35 

A Visit from St. Nicholas. Clement C. Moore 36 

Bobolink. Clinton Scollard 38 

Fraidie-Cat. Clinton Scollard 39 

The Sandman. Margaret Vandegrift 40 

Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean. David T. Shaw ..... 41 

FOURTH YEAR 

Sweet and Low. Alfred, Lord Tennyson 43 

Fairy Folk. William Allingham 44 

The Night Wind. Eugene Field 45 

Jack Frost. Hannah F. Gould 47 

September. Helen Jackson .48 

The Village Blacksmith. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow ... 49 

The Children's Hour. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow .... 51 

The Bluebird. Emily Huntington Miller 52 

The Wind and the Moon. George Macdonald 53 

The Crow. Clinton Scollard 56 

The Sandpiper. Celia Thaxter 57 

The Barefoot Boy. John Greenleaf Whittier 58 

Lucy Gray. William Wordsworth 61 

FIFTH YEAR 

The Brook. Alfred, Lord Tennyson 64 

Robert of Lincoln. William Cullen Bryant 65 

The Tree. Bjornstjerne Bjornson 68 

To-Day. Thomas Carlyle 68 

Old Ironsides. Oliver Wendell Holmes . 69 

October's Bright Blue Weather. Helen Jackson 70 

The Ship of State. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 71 

The Builders. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 72 

Home, Sweet Home! John Howard Payne 73 

Warren's Address to the American Soldiers. John Pierpont 74 

Lullaby for Titania. William Shakespeare 75 

The Blue Jay. Susan Hartley Swett 76 



CONTENTS v 

SIXTH YEAR 

Before the Rain. Thomas Bailey Aldrich 78 

The Flag Goes By. Henry Holcomb Bennett 78 

The Year's at the Spring. Robert Browning 79 

Concord Hymn. Ralph Waldo Emerson 80 

The First Snow- Fall. James Russell Lowell 80 

The Coming of Spring. Nora Perry 82 

Sheridan's Ride. Thomas Buchanan Read 83 

Puck and the Fairy. William Shakespeare 85 

The Quality of Mercy. William Shakespeare 86 

May. Frank Dempster Sherman 87 

July. Susan Hartley Swett 87 

The Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna. Charles Wolfe . 88 

SEVENTH YEAR 

Sir Galahad. Alfred, Lord Tennyson 90 

A Song of Love. Lewis Carroll 93 

The Chambered Nautilus. Oliver Wendell Holmes 94 

The Star-Spangled Banner. Francis Scott Key 95 

Scythe Song. Andrew Lang 96 

The Arrow and the Song. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow . . 97 

Spring. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 97 

Summer. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 98 

Autumn. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 98 

Winter. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 99 

The Finding of the Lyre. James Russell Lowell 100 

Columbus. Joaquin Miller 101 

The Name of Old Glory. James Whitcomb Riley ..... 102 

A Song of Clover. Helen Jackson 104 

A Visit from the Sea. Robert Louis Stevenson 105 

Farewell! A Long Farewell to All my Greatness! William 

Shakespeare 106 

Jog On, Jog On. William Shakespeare 107 

EIGHTH YEAR 

The Bugle Song. Alfred, Lord Tennyson ,108 

Battle-Hymn of the Republic. Julia Ward Howe 109 

Recessional. Rudyard Kipling ..110 



vi CONTENTS 

Gettysburg Speech. Abraham Lincoln Ill 

On Books (from "Books and Culture"). Hamilton Wright Mabie 112 
On Books (from " My Study Fire"). Hamilton Wright Mabie . . 113 

Opportunity. Edward Rowland Sill , . 114 

Breathes there the Man with Soul so Dead. Sir Walter Scott 114 

Hark, Hark! The Lark. William Shakespeare 115 

At Morning. Robert Louis Stevenson 115 

The Song of the Camp. Bayard Taylor 116 

The Angler's Reveille. Henry Van Dyke 117 

O Captain! My Captain! Walt Whitman ........ 120 



SELECTIONS FOR STUDY AND 
MEMORIZING 

FIRST YEAR 

ALL THINGS BEAUTIFUL 

All things bright and beautiful, 
All creatures great and small, 

All things wise and wonderful, 
The Lord God made them all. 

Each little flower that opens, 
Each little bird that sings, 

He made their glowing colors, 
He made their tiny wings. 

The purple-headed mountain, 

The river running by, 
The morning, and the sunset 

That lighteth up the sky. 

The tall trees in the greenwood, 
The pleasant summer sun, 

The ripe fruits in the garden, 
He made them every one. 

He gave us eyes to see them, 
And lips that we might tell, 



FIRST YEAR 

How great is God Almighty, 
Who hath made all things well. 

Cecil F. Alexander. 



ROCK-A-BY LADY 1 

The Rock-a-By Lady from Hushaby street 

Comes stealing; comes creeping; 
The poppies they hang from her head to her feet, 
And each hath a dream that is tiny and fleet — 
She bringeth her poppies to you, my sweet, 

When she findeth you sleeping ! 

There is one little dream of a beautiful drum — 

"Rub-a-dub!" it goeth; 
There is one little dream of a big sugar-plum, \ 
And lo ! thick and fast the other dreams come 
Of popguns that bang, and tin tops that hum, 
And a trumpet that bloweth ! 

And dollies peep out of those wee little dreams 

With laughter and singing; 
And boats go a-floating on silvery streams, 
And the stars peek-a-boo with their own misty gleams, 
And up, up, and up, where the Mother Moon beams, 

The fairies go winging! 

Would you dream all these dreams that are tiny and fleet? 

They '11 come to you sleeping; 
So shut the two eyes that are weary, my sweet, 

1 From Poems of Childhood. Copyright, 1904, by Charles Scribner's 
Sons. 



MEMORY SELECTIONS S 

For the Rock-a-By Lady from Hushaby street, 
With poppies that hang from her head to her feet, 
Comes stealing; comes creeping. 

Eugene Field. 

MAKING A HOUSE 

First of all, I draw the Smoke 

Trailing up the sky; 
Then the Chimney, underneath; 

And Birds all flying by; 
Then the House; and every Window, 

Watching, like an Eye. 

Everybody else begins 

With the House. But I 
Love the Smoke the best of all; 

And you don't know why ! . . . 
Here it goes, — like little feathers 

Sailing up the sky! 

Josephine P. Peabody. 

THE WIND 

Who has seen the wind? 

Neither I nor you: 
But when the leaves hang trembling 

• The wind is passing through. 

Who has seen the wind? 

Neither you nor I : 
But when the trees bow down their heads 

The wind is passing by. 

Christina G. Rossetti. 



4 FIRST YEAR 

O LADY MOON 

Lady Moon, your horns point toward the east: 

1 Shine, be increased; 

O Lady Moon, your horns point toward the west: 
Wane, be at rest. 

Christina G. Rossetti. 

WHAT DOES THE BEE DO? 

What does the bee do? 

Bring home honey. 
And what does Father do? 

Bring home money. 
And what does Mother do? 
i Lay out the money. 
And what does baby do? 

Eat up the honey. 

Christina G. Rossetti. 

THE SUNBEAMS 1 

"Now, what shall I send to the Earth to-day?" 
Said the great, round, golden Sun. 

"Oh! let us go down there to work and play," 
Said the Sunbeams, every one. 

So down to the Earth, in a shining crowd, 

Went the merry, busy crew; 
They painted with splendor each floating cloud 

And the sky while passing through. 

1 Used by special arrangement with the author and Miss G. G. 
Cameron. 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 5 

"Shine on, little stars, if you like," they cried, 
"We will weave a golden screen 
That soon all your twinkling and light shall hide, 
Though the Moon may peep between." 

The Sunbeams then in through the windows crept 

To the children in their beds — 
They poked at the eylids of those who slept, 

Gilded all the little heads. 

"Wake up, little children!" they cried in glee, 
"And from Dreamland come away! 
We 've brought you a present, wake up and see ! 
We have brought you a sunny day!" 

Emilie Poulsson. 

THE WIND 1 

I saw you toss the kites on high 
And blow the birds about the sky; 
And all around I heard you pass, 
Like ladies' skirts across the grass — 
O wind, a-blowing all day long, 
O wind, that sings so loud a song! 

I saw the different things you did, 

But always you yourself you hid. 

I felt you push, I heard you call, 

I could not see yourself at all — 
O wind, a-blowing all day long, 
O wind, that sings so loud a song! 

1 From A Child's Garden of Verse, Charles Scribner's Sons, pub- 
lishers. 



6 FIRST YEAR 

O you that are so strong and cold, 
O blower, are you young or old? 
Are you a beast of field and tree, 
Or just a stronger child than me? 
O wind, a-blowing all day long, 
O wind, that sings so loud a song! 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 



WHERE GO THE BOATS? 1 

Dark brown is the river, 

Golden is the sand. 
It flows along forever, 

With trees on either hand. 

Green leaves a-floating, 

Castles of the foam, 
Boats of mine a-boating — 

Where will all come home? 

On goes the river 

And out past the mill, 
Away down the valley, 

Away down the hill. 

Away down the river, 

A hundred miles or more, 
Other little children 

Shall bring my boats ashore. 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 

1 From A Child's Garden of Verse, Charles Scribner's Sons, pub- 
lishers. 






MEMORY SELECTIONS 



FOREIGN CHILDREN 1 

Little Indian, Sioux or Crow, 

Little frosty Eskimo, 

Little Turk or Japanee, 

O! don't you wish that you were me? 

You have seen the scarlet trees 
And the lions over seas; 
You have eaten ostrich eggs, 
And turned the turtles off their legs. 

Such a life is very fine, 
But it 's not so nice as mine: 
You must often, as you trod, 
Have wearied not to be abroad. 

You have curious things to eat, 
I am fed on proper meat, 
You must dwell beyond the foam, 
But I am safe and live at home. 

Little Indian, Sioux or Crow, 

Little frosty Eskimo, 

Little Turk or Japanee, 

O! don't you wish that you were me? 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 

1 From A Child's Garden of Verse, Charles Scribner's Sons, pub- 
lishers. 



8 FIRST YEAR 



MOTHER GOOSE RHYMES 



Baa, baa, black sheep, 
Have you any wool? 

Yes, marry, have I, 
Three bags full; 

One for my master, 
And one for my dame, 

But none for the little boy 
Who cries in the lane. 



Hey! diddle, diddle, 

The cat and the fiddle, 
The cow jumped over the moon; 

The little dog laughed 

To see such sport, 
And the dish ran away with the spoon. 



Ding dong bell, 

The cat 's in the well! 

Who put her in? — 

Little Johnny Green. 

Who pulled her out? — 

Big Johnny Stout. 
What a naughty boy was that 
To drown poor pussy cat, 
Who never did him any harm, 
But killed the mice in his father's barn ! 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 9 

Bobby Shafto 's gone to sea, 
With silver buckles at his knee; 
He '11 come back and marry me, — 
Pretty Bobby Shafto! 

Bobby Shafto 's fat and fair, 
Combing out his yellow hair, 
He 's my love forevermore, — 
Pretty Bobby Shafto! 



Hark, hark, 

The dogs do bark, 
The beggars are coming to town; 

Some in rags, 

Some in jags, 
And some in velvet gowns. 



Sing a song of sixpence, 
A pocket full of rye; 

Four and twenty blackbirds 
Baked in a pie; 

When the pie was opened, 
The birds began to sing; 

Was not that a dainty dish 
To set before the king? 

The king was in the parlor, 
Counting out his money; 

The queen was in the kitchen, 
Eating bread and honey; 



10 FIRST YEAR 

The maid was in the garden, 
Hanging out the clothes; 

There came a little blackbird, 
And snipped off her nose. 

Jenny was so mad, 

She did n't know what to do; 
She put her finger in her ear, 

And cracked it right in two. 



Hickory, dickory, dock, 
The mouse ran up the clock, 
The clock struck one, 
The mouse ran down; 
Hickory, dickory, dock. 



Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, 

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall; 

Threescore men and threescore more 

Cannot place Humpty Dumpty as he was before. 



Jack and Jill went up the hill, 

To fetch a pail of water; 
Jack fell down, and broke his crown, 

And Jill came tumbling after. 



Little Bo-peep has lost her sheep, 
And can't tell where to find them; 

Leave them alone, and they '11 come home, 
And bring their tails behind them. 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 11 

Little Bo-peep fell fast asleep, 

And dreamed she heard them bleating; 

But when she awoke, she found it a joke, 
For they were still a-fleeting. 

Then she up took her little crook, 

Determined for to find them; 
She found them indeed, but it made her heart bleed, 

For they 'd left all their tails behind 'em. 



Little boy blue, come blow your horn, 

The sheep 's in the meadow, the cow 's in the corn; 

Where 's the little boy that tends the sheep? 

He's under the haycock, fast asleep. 

Go wake him, go wake him. Oh, no, not I; 

For if I awake him, he '11 certainly cry. 



Little girl, little girl, where have you been? 
Gathering roses to give to the queen. 
Little girl, little girl, what gave she you? 
She gave me a diamond as big as my shoe. 



Little Jack Horner sat in the corner, 

Eating a Christmas pie; 
He put in his thumb, and he took out a plum, 

And said, "What a good boy am I!" 



Little Miss Muffet 
She sat on a tuffet, 
Eating of curds and whey; 



12 FIRST YEAR 

There came a black spider, 
And sat down beside her, i 
Which frightened Miss Muffet away. 



Little Tommy Tucker 
Sing for your supper. ] 

What shall I sing? 

White bread and butter. 

How shall I cut it 
Without any knife? 

How shall I marry 
Without any wife? 



Mistress Mary, quite contrary, 
How does your garden grow? 

With cockle-shells, and silver bells, 
And pretty maids all in a row. 



Old King Cole 

Was a merry old soul, 
And a merry old soul was he; 
He called for his pipe, 
And he called for his bowl, 
And he called for his fiddlers three. 
Every fiddler, he had a fiddle, 
And a very fine fiddle had he; 
Twee tweedle dee, tweedle dee, went the fiddlers. 

Oh, there 's none so rare, 

As can compare 
With old King Cole and his fiddlers three! 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 

Once I saw a little bird 

Come hop, hop, hop; 

So I cried, "Little bird, 

Will you stop, stop, stop ? " 
And was going to the window 

To say, " How do you do ? " 
But he shook his little tail, 
And far away he flew. 



13 



Ride a cock-horse to Banbury-cross 
To see an old lady upon a white horse, 
Rings on her fingers, and bells on her toes, 
And she so makes music wherever she goes, 



Simple Simon met a pieman 

Going to the fair; 
Says Simple Simon to the pieman, 

"Let me taste your ware." 

Says the pieman to Simple Simon, 
"Show me first your penny;" 

Says Simple Simon to the pieman, 
"Indeed, I have not any." 



Simple Simon went a-fishing 
For to catch a whale; 

All the water he had got 

Was in his mother's pail. 



14 FIRST YEAR 

Simple Simon went to look 

If plums grew on a thistle; 

He pricked his fingers very much, 
Which made poor Simon whistle. 



There was a crooked man, and he went a crooked mile; 
He found a crooked sixpence against a crooked stile; 
He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse, 
And they all lived together in a little crooked house. 



Tom, Tom, the piper's son, 

Stole a pig and away he run! 

The pig was eat, and Tom was beat, 

And Tom went roaring down the street, 



There was a little boy went into a barn, 
And lay down on some hay; 

An owl came out and flew about, 
And the little boy ran away. 



There was a man of our town, 
And he was wondrous wise; 
He jumped into a bramble bush, 
And scratched out both his eyes: 
And when he saw his eyes were out, 
With all his might and main 
He jumped into another bush, 
And scratched 'em in again. 



SECOND YEAR 

"ONE, TWO, THREE I" 1 

It was an old, old, old, old lady, 
And a boy that was half past three; 

And the way that they played together 
Was beautiful to see. 

She could n't go running and jumping, 

And the boy, no more could he; 
For he was a thin little fellow, 

With a thin little twisted knee. 

They sat in the yellow sunlight, 

Out under the maple-tree; 
And the game that they played I '11 tell you, 

Just as it was told to me. 

It was Hide-and-go-Seek they were playing, 

Though you 'd never have known it to be — 
With an old, old, old, old lady, 
And a boy with a twisted knee. 

The boy would bend his face down 

On his one little sound right knee, 
And he 'd guess where she was hiding, 

In guesses One, Two, Three ! 

From Rowen, Second Crop Songs. Copyright, 1892, by Charles 
Scribner's Sods. 



16 SECOND YEAR 

"You are in the china-closet !" 

He would cry, and laugh with glee — 
It was n't the china-closet; 

But he still had Two and Three. 

"You are up in Papa's big bedroom, 

In the chest with the queer old key!" 
And she said: "You are warm and warmer; 
But you 're not quite right," said she. 

"It can't be the little cupboard 

Where Mamma's things used to be — 
So it must be the clothes-press, Gran'ma!" 
And he found her with his Three. 

Then she covered her face with her fingers, 
That were wrinkled and white and wee, 

And she guessed where the boy was hiding, 
With a One and a Two and a Three. 

And they never had stirred from their places, 

Right under the maple-tree — 
This old, old, old, old lady, 

And the boy with the lame little knee — 
This dear, dear, dear old lady, 

And the boy who was half past three. 

Henry Cuyler Bunner. 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 17 

WYNKEN, BLYNKEN, AND NOD* 
(dutch lullaby) 

. Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night 
Sailed off in a wooden shoe — 
Sailed on a river of crystal light, 
Into a sea of dew. 
" Where are you going, and what do you wish?" 

The old moon asked the three. 
"We have come to fish for the herring fish 
That live in this beautiful sea; 
Nets of silver and gold have we!" 
Said Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And Nod. 

The old moon laughed and sang a song, 
As they rocked in the wooden shoe, 
And the wind that sped them all night long 

Ruffled the waves of dew. 
The little stars were the herring fish 
That lived in that beautiful sea, — 
"Now cast your nets wherever you wish — 
Never afeard are we;" 
So cried the stars to the fishermen three: 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And Nod. 

All night long their nets they threw 

To the stars in the twinkling foam — 

1 From Poems of Childhood. Copyright, 1904, by Charles Scribner's 
Sons. 






18 SECOND YEAR 

Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe, 

Bringing the fishermen home; 
'T was all so pretty a sail it seemed 

As if it could not be, 
And some folks thought 't was a dream they 'd dreamed 

Of sailing that beautiful sea — 
But I shall name you the fishermen three : 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And Nod. 

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes, 

And Nod is a little head, 
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies 

Is a wee one's trundle-bed. 
So shut your eyes while mother sings 

Of wonderful sights that be, 
And you shall see the beautiful things 

As you rock in the misty sea, 
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three: 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And Nod. 

Eugene Field. 

THE OWL AND THE PUSSY-CAT 

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea 

In a beautiful pea-green boat: 
They took some honey and plenty of money 

Wrapped up in a five-pound note. 
The Owl looked up to the stars above, 

And sang to a small guitar, 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 19 

"O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love, 
What a beautiful Pussy you are, 

You are, 

You are! 
What a beautiful Pussy you are!" 

Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl, 

How charmingly sweet you sing! 
Oh, let us be married; too long we have tarried: 

But what shall we do for a ring?" 
They sailed away, for a year and a day, 

To the land where the bong-tree grows; 
And there in a wood a Piggy -wig stood, 

With a ring at the end of his nose, j 
His nose, 
His nose, 

With a ring at the end of his nose. 

"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling 
Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will." 
So they took it away, and were married next day 

By the Turkey who lives on the hill. 
They dined on mince and slices of quince, 
Which they ate with a runcible spoon; 
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, 
They danced by the light of the moon, 
The moon, 
The moon, 
They danced by the light of the moon. 

Edward Lear. 



► 



20 SECOND YEAR 

THE BROWN THRUSH 

There 's a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree, 
"He's singing to me! He 's singing to me!" 
And what does he say, little girl, little boy? 
"Oh, the world's running over with joy! 

Don't you hear? Don't you see? 

Hush ! Look ! In my tree 
I 'm as happy as happy can be!" 

And the brown thrush keeps singing, "A nest do you see, 
And five eggs, hid by me in the juniper-tree? 
Don't meddle! don't touch! little girl, little boy, 
Or the world will lose some of its joy ! 

Now I 'm glad ! now I 'm free ! 

And I always shall be, 
If you never bring sorrow to me." 

So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree, 
To you and to me, to you and to me; 
And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy, 
"Oh, the world's running over with joy! 

But long it won't be, 

Don't you know? don't you see? 
Unless we are as good as can be!" 

Lucy Larcom. 



SEVEN TIMES ONE 

There 's no dew left on the daisies and clover, 
There 's no rain left in heaven; 

I've said my "seven times" over and over: 
Seven times one are seven. 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 21 

I am old, so old I can write a letter; 
My birthday lessons are done; - 
The lambs play always, they know no better, — 

They are only one times one. 

» 

moon ! in the night I have seen you sailing 

And shining so round and low; 
You were bright, ah bright ! but your light is failing, — 
You are nothing now but a bow. 

You Moon, have you done something wrong in heaven, 
That God has hidden your face? 

1 hope if you have, you '11 soon be forgiven, 

And shine again in your place. 

O velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow; 

You ' ve powdered your legs with gold ! . 
O brave marshmary buds, rich and yellow, 

Give me your money to hold ! 

.0 columbine, open your folded wrapper, 
Where two twin turtle-doves dwell ! 

cuckoo-pint, toll me the purple clapper 

That hangs in your clear green bell ! 

And show me your nest, with the young ones in it, — 
I will not steal them away; 

1 am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet, — 

I am seven times one to-day. 

Jean Ingelow. 



22 SECOND YEAR 

LADY MOON 

Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving? 

Over the sea. 
Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving? 

All that love me. 

Are you not tired with rolling, and never 

Resting to sleep? 
Why look so pale and so sad, as forever 

Wishing to weep? 

Ask me not this, little child, if you love me; 

You are too bold; 
I must obey my dear Father above me, 

And do as I 'm told. 

Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving? 

Over the sea. 
Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving? 

All that love me. 

Lord Houghton. 

THE JOURNEY 

I never saw the hills so far 

And blue, the way the pictures are; 

And flowers, flowers growing thick, 
But not a one for me to pick! 

The land was running from the train. 
All blurry through the window-pane. 






MEMORY SELECTIONS 23 

But then it all looked flat and still, 
When up there jumped a little hill! 

I saw the windows and the spires, 
And sparrows sitting on the wires; 

i 

And fences, running up and down; 

And then we cut straight through a town. 

I saw a valley, like a cup; 

And ponds that twinkled, and dried up. 

I counted meadows, that were burnt; 

And there were trees, — and then there were n't! 

We crossed the bridges with a roar, 
Then hummed, the way we went before. 

And tunnels made it dark and light 
Like open-work of day and night. 

Until I saw the chimneys rise, 

And lights and lights and lights, like eyes. 

And when they took me through the door, 
I heard It all begin to roar. — 

I thought — as far as I could see — 
That everybody wanted Me ! 

Josephine P. Peabody. 



24 SECOND YEAR 

THE WONDERFUL WORLD 

" Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful world, 
With the wonderful water round you curled, s, 
And the wonderful grass upon your breast, — 
World, you are beautifully drest. 

"The wonderful air is over me, 
And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree, 
It walks on the water, and whirls the mills, 
And talks to itself on the tops of the hills. 

"You friendly Earth! how far do you go 

With the wheat-fields that nod and the rivers that flow, 

With cities and gardens, and cliffs, and isles 

And people upon you for thousands of miles? 

"Ah, you are so great, and I am so small, 

I tremble to think of you, World, at all; 

And yet, when I said my prayers, to-day, 

A whisper inside me seemed to say, 

* You are more than the Earth, though you are such a dot: 

You can love and think, and the Earth cannot ! ' 3 

W. B. Rands. 



HOW MANY SECONDS IN A MINUTE? 

How many seconds in a minute? 
Sixty, and no more in it. 

How many minutes in an hour? 
Sixty for sun and shower. 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 25 

How many hours in a day? 
Twenty-four for work and play. 

How many days in a week? 
Seven both to hear and speak. 

How many weeks in a month? 
Four, as the swift moon runn'th. 

How many months in a year? 
Twelve, the almanack makes clear. 

How many years in an age? 
One hundred, says the sage. 

How many ages in time? 
No one knows the rhyme. 

Christina G. Rossetti. 



AMERICA 

My country, 't is of thee, 
Sweet land of liberty, 

Of thee I sing; 
Land where my fathers died, 
Land of the pilgrims' pride, 
From every mountain-side 

Let freedom ring. 

My native country, thee, 
Land of the noble free, 
Thy name I love; 



26 SECOND YEAR 

I love thy rocks and rills, 
Thy woods and templed hills; 
My heart with rapture thrills 
Like that above. 

Let music swell the breeze, 
And ring from all the trees 

Sweet Freedom's song; 
Let mortal tongues awake, 
Let all that breathe partake, 
Let rocks their silence break, 

The sound prolong. 

Our Fathers' God, to Thee, 
Author of liberty, 

To Thee we sing; 
Long may our land be bright 
With Freedom's holy light; 
Protect us by Thy might, 

Great God, our King. 

Samuel F. Smith. 

MY SHADOW 1 

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me, 
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see. 
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head; 
And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed. 

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow — 
Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow — 

1 From A Child's Garden of Verse, Charles Scribner's Sons, pub- 
lishers. 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 27 

For he sometimes shoots up taller, like an india-rubber 

ball, 
And he sometimes gets so little that there 's none of him 

at all. 

He has n't got a notion of how children ought to play, 
And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way. 
He stays so close beside me, he's a coward you can see; 
I 'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks 
to me! 

One morning, very early, before the sun was up, 
I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup; 
But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head, 
Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed, 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 



THE SWING 1 

How do you like to go up in a swing, 

Up in the air so blue? 
Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing 

Ever a child can do ! 

Up in the air and over the wall, 

Till I can see so wide, 
Rivers and trees and cattle and all 

Over the countryside — 

1 From A Child's Garden of Verse, Charles Scribner's Sons, pub- 
lishers. 



28 SECOND YEAR 

Till I look down on the garden green, 
Down on the roof so brown — 

Up in the air I go flying again, 
Up in the air and down ! 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 



THIRD YEAR 

MARJORIES ALMANACK 

Robins in the tree-top, 

Blossoms in the grass, 
Green things a-growing 

Everywhere you pass; 
Sudden little breezes, 

Showers of silver dew, 
Black bough and bent twig 

Budding out anew; 
Pine-tree and willow-tree, 

Fringed elm and larch, — 
Don't you think that May-time's 

Pleasanter than March? 

Apples in the orchard 

Mellowing one by one; 
Strawberries upturning 

Soft cheeks to the sun; 
Roses faint with sweetness, 

Lilies fair of face, 
Drowsy scents and murmurs 

Haunting every place; 
Lengths of golden sunshine, 

Moonlight bright as day, — 
Don't you think that summer 's 

Pleasanter than May? 



30 THIRD YEAR 

Roger in the corn-patch 

Whistling negro songs; 
' Pussy by the hearth-side 

Romping with the tongs; 
Chestnuts in the ashes 

Bursting through the rind; 
Red leaf and gold leaf 

Rustling down the wind; 
Mother "doin' peaches" 

All the afternoon, — 
Don't you think that autumn 's 

Pleasanter than June? 

Little fairy snow-flakes / 

Dancing in the flue; 
Old Mr. Santa Claus, 

What is keeping you? 
Twilight and firelight 

Shadows come and go; 
Merry chime of sleigh-bells \ 

Tinkling through the snow; 
Mother knitting stockings 

(Pussy 's got the ball), — 
{ Don't you think that winter 's 

Pleasanter than all? 

Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 

O LITTLE TOWN OF BETHLEHEM 

O little town of Bethlehem, 

How still we see thee lie ! 
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep 

The silent stars go by; 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 31 

Yet in thy dark streets shineth 

The everlasting Light; 
The hopes and fears of all the years 

Are met in thee to-night. 

For Christ is born of Mary, 

And, gathered all above, 
While mortals sleep, the angels keep 

Their watch of wondering love. 
O morning stars, together 

Proclaim the holy birth! 
And praises sing to God the King, 

And peace to men on earth. 

How silently, how silently, 

The wondrous gift is given ! ^ 
So God imparts to human hearts 

The blessings of His heaven. 
No ear may hear His coming, 

But in this world of sin, 
Where meek souls will receive Him still, 

The dear Christ enters in. 

O holy Child of Bethlehem! 

Descend to us, we pray; 
Cast out our sin, and enter in, 

Be born in us to-day. 
We hear the Christmas angels 

The great glad tidings tell; 
Oh, come to us, abide with us, 

Our Lord Emmanuel ! 

Phillips Brooks. 



32 THIRD YEAR 



NOVEMBER 



The leaves are fading and falling, 
The winds are rough and wild, 

The birds have ceased their calling, 
But let me tell you, my child, 

Though day by day, as it closes, 
Doth darker and colder grow, 

The roots of the bright red roses 
Will keep alive in the snow. 

And when the winter is over, 
The boughs will get new leaves, 

The quail come back to the clover, 
And the swallow back to the eaves, 

The robin will wear on his bosom 
A vest that is bright and new, 

And the loveliest way-side blossom 
Will shine with the sun and dew. 

The leaves to-day are whirling, 
The brooks are all dry and dumb, 

But let me tell you, my darling, 
The spring will be sure to come. 

There must be rough, cold weather, 
And winds and rains so wild; 

Not all good things together 
Come to us here, my child. 

So, when some dear joy loses 1 
Its beauteous summer glow, 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 33 

v Think how the roots of the roses ; 
Are kept alive in the snow. 

Alice Cary. 

PRAYING AND LOVING 1 

He prayeth best who loveth best 
All things both great and small; 

For the dear God who loveth us, 
He made and loveth all. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 

A CHILD'S PRAYER 

God make my life a little light, 

'Within the world to glow, — 
A little flame that burnetii bright, 

Wherever I may go. 

God make my life a little flower, 

That giveth joy to all; — 
Content to bloom in native bower 

Although its place be small. 

God make my life a little song, 

That comfort eth the sad; 
That helpeth others to be strong, 

And makes the singer glad. 

God make my life a little staff 

Wliereon the weak may rest, — 
That so what health and strength I have 

May serve my neighbor best. 
1 From The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. 



34 THIRD YEAR 

God make my life a little hymn 
Of tenderness and praise, — ■ 

Of faith, that never waxeth dim, 
In all His wondrous ways. 

Matilda B. Edwards. 



A BOY'S SONG 

Where the pools are bright and deep, 
Where the gray trout lies asleep, 
Up the river and o'er the lea, 
That 's the way for Billy and me. 

Where the blackbird sings the latest, 
Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest, 
Where the nestlings chirp and flee, 
That 's the way for Billy and me. 

Where the mowers mow the cleanest, 
Where the hay lies thick and greenest; 
There to trace the homeward bee, 
That 's the way for Billy and me. 

Where the hazel bank is steepest, 
Where the shadow falls the deepest, 
Where the clustering nuts fall free, 
That 's the way for Billy and me. 

^Why the boys should drive away 
Little sweet maidens from the play, 
Or love to banter and fight so well, 
That 's the thing I never could tell. 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 35 

But this I know, I love to play, 
Through the meadow, among the hay; 
Up the water and o'er the lea, 
That's the way for Billy and me. 

James Hogg. 



THE VIOLET 

They neither toil nor spin; 

And yet their robes have won 
A splendor never seen within 

The courts of Solomon. 

Tints that the cloud-rifts hold, 

And rainbow-gossamer, 
The violet's tender form enfold; 

No queen is draped like her. 

All heaven and earth and sea 

Have wrought with subtlest power 

That clothed in purple she might be, - 
This little fading flower. 

We, who must toil and spin, 
What clothing shall we wear? 

The glorious raiment we shall win, 
Life shapes us, everywhere. 

God's inner heaven hath sun, 
And rain, and space of sky, 

Wherethrough for us his spindles run, 
His mighty shuttles fly. 



36 THIRD YEAR 

His seamless vesture white 

He wraps our spirits in; 
He weaves his finest webs of light 

For us, who toil and spin. 

Lucy Larcom. 

A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS 

'T was the night before Christmas, when all through the 

house 
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. 
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, 
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there. 
The children were nestled all snug in their beds, 
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; 
And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap, 
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap — 
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, 
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. 
Away to the window I flew like a flash, 
Tore open the shutters, and threw up the sash; 
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow 
Gave a lustre of mid-day to objects below; 
When what to my wondering eyes should appear, 
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer. 
With a little old driver, so lively and quick, 
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. 
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, 
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name: 
"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen! 
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen! — 
To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall, 
Now, dash away, dash away, dash away all!" , 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 37 

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, 
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky, 
So, up to the housetop the coursers they flew, 
With a sleigh full of toys — and St. Nicholas too. 
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof 
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. 
As I drew in my head and was turning around, 
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound; 
He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot, 
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot : 
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, 
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack. 
His eyes, how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry! 
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry; 
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, 
And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow. 
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, 
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath. 
He had a broad face, and a little round belly 
That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly. 
He was chubby and plump — a right jolly old elf; 
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself. 
A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head, 
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. 
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, 
And filled all the stockings: then turned with a jerk, 
And laying his finger aside of his nose, 
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. 
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, 
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle. 
But I heard him exclaim, ere they drove out of sight, 
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!" 

Clement C. Moore. 



38 THIRD YEAR 



BOBOLINK 1 



Bobolink — 

He is here ! 
Spink-a-chink! 

Hark! how clear 
Drops the note 
From his throat, 
Where he sways 
On the sprays 
Of the wheat 
In the heat ! 

Bobolink, 

Spink-a-chink! 

Bobolink 

Is a beau. 
See him prink ! 

Watch him go 
Through the air 
To his fair! 
Hear him sing * 
On the wing — 
Sing his best 
O'er her nest! 

"Bobolink, 

Spink-a-chink!" 

Bobolink, 

Linger long! 
There 's a kink 

1 From A Boy's Book of Rhyme* Copyright, 1896, by Copeland 
and Day. 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 39 

In your song 
Like the joy 
Of a boy 
Left to run 
In the sun — ) 
Left to play ) 
All the day. 

Bobolink, 

Spink-a-chink ! 

Clinton Scollard. 

FRAIDIE-CAT 1 

I shan't tell you what 's his name: 
When we want to play a game, 
Always thinks that he '11 be hurt, 
Soil his jacket in the dirt, 
Tear his trousers, spoil his hat, — 
Fraidie-Cat! Fraidie-Cat! 

Nothing of the boy in him! 
" Das n't" try to learn to swim; 
Says a cow '11 hook; if she 
Looks at him he '11 climb a tree. 
"Scart" to death at bee or bat, — ^ 
Fraidie-Cat! Fraidie-Cat! 

Claims the' 're ghosts all snowy white 
Wandering around at night 
In the attic: would n't go 
There for anything, I know. 

1 From A Boy's Book of Rhyme. Copyright, 1896, by Copeland 
and Day. 



40 THIRD YEAR 

B'lieve he'd run if you said "Scat!" 
Fraidie-Cat! Fraidie-Cat! 

Clinton Scollard. 

THE SANDMAN 

The rosy clouds float overhead, 

The sun is going down, 
And now the Sandman's gentle tread 
Comes stealing through the town. 
"White sand, white sand," he softly cries, 
And, as he shakes his hand, 
Straightway there lies on babies' eyes 
His gift of shining sand. 
Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes and brown, 
As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through 
the town. 

From sunny beaches far away, 

Yes, in another land, 
He gathers up, at break of day, 

His store of shining sand. 
No tempests beat that shore remote, 

No ships may sail that way; 
His little boat alone may float 
Within that lovely bay. 
Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes and brown, 
As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through 
the town. 

He smiles to see the eyelids close 

Above the happy eyes, 
And every child right well he knows — ' 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 41 

Oh, he is very wise! 
But if, as he goes through the land, 

A naughty baby cries, 
His other hand takes dull gray sand 
To close the wakeful eyes. 
Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes and brown, 
As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through 
the town. 

So when you hear the Sandman's song 

Sound through the twilight sweet, 
Be sure you do not f keep him long 

A-waiting in the street. 
Lie softly down, dear little head, 

Rest quiet, busy hands, 
Till by your bed when good-night 's said, 
He strews the shining sands. 
Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes and brown, 
As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through 
the town. 

Margaret Vandegrift. 



COLUMBIA, THE GEM OF THE OCEAN 

O Columbia, the gem of the ocean, 
The home of the brave and the free, 
The shrine of each patriot's devotion, 
A world offers homage to thee. 
Thy mandates make heroes assemble, 
When Liberty's form stands in view; 
Thy banners make tyranny tremble — 
Three cheers for the Red, White, and Blue ! 



42 THIRD YEAR 

When war winged its wide desolation, 
And threatened the land to deform, 
The ark then of freedom's foundation, 
Columbia rode safe through the storm; \ 
With their garlands of vict'ry around her, 
When so proudly she bore her brave crew; 
With her flag proudly floating before her, 
Three cheers for the Red, White, and Blue ! 

Old Glory to greet, now come hither, 

With eyes full of love to the brim, 

May the wreaths of our heroes ne'er wither, 

Nor a star of our Banner grow dim; 

May the service united ne'er sever, 

But they to our colors prove true; 

The Army and Navy forever ! 

Three cheers for the Red, White, and Blue! 

David T. Shaw. 



FOURTH YEAR 



SWEET AND LOW 



Sweet and low, sweet and low, 

Wind of the western sea, 
Low, low, breathe and blow, 

Wind of the western sea ! 
Over the rolling waters go, 
Come from the dying moon, and blow, 

Blow him again to me; 
While my little one, while my pretty one sleeps. 

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, 

Father will come to thee soon; 
Rest, rest, on mother's breast, 

Father will come to thee soon ; 
Father will come to his babe in the nest, 
Silver sails all out of the west 

Under the silver moon; 
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson 



44 FOURTH YEAR 



FAIRY FOLK 



Up the airy mountain, 
Down the rushy glen, 
We dare n't go a-hunting 
For fear of little men ; 
Wee folk, good folk, 
Trooping all together; 
Green jacket, red cap, 
And white owl's feather! 

Down along the rocky shore 
Some make their home, 
They live on crispy pancakes 
Of yellow tide foam ; 
Some in the reeds 
Of the black mountain lake, 
With frogs for their watch dogs, 
All night awake. 

High on the hill-top 
The old King sits; 
He is now so old and gray 
He's nigh lost his w T its. 
With a bridge of white mist 
Columbkill he crosses, 
On his stately journeys 
From Slieveleague to Rosses; 
Or going up with music 
On cold starry nights, 
To sup with the Queen 
Of the gay Northern Lights. 

They stole little Bridget 
For seven years long; 
When she came down again 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 45 

Her friends were all gone. 
They took her lightly back, 
Between the night and morrow, 
They thought that she was fast asleep, 
But she was dead with sorrow. 
They have kept her ever since 
Deep within the lakes, 
On a bed of flag leaves, 
Watching till she wakes. 

By the craggy hill-side, 
Through the mosses bare, 
They have planted thorn-trees 
For pleasure here and there. 
Is any man so daring 
As dig them up in spite, 
He shall find their sharpest thorns 
In his bed at night. 

Up the airy mountain, 
Down the rushy glen, 
We dare n't go a-hunting 
For fear of little men; 
Wee folk, good folk, 
Trooping all together; 
Green jacket, red cap, 
And white owl's feather! 

William Allingham. 



THE NIGHT WIND* 

Have you ever heard the wind go "Yooooo"? 
'T is a pitiful sound to hear ! 

1 From Love-Songs of Childhood. Copyright, 1894, by Eugene Field. 
Published by Charles Scribner's Sons. 



46 FOURTH YEAR 

It seems to chill you through and through 
With a strange and speechless fear. 
'T is the voice of the night that broods outside 
When folk should be asleep, 
And many and many's the time I've cried 
To the darkness brooding far and wide 
Over the land and deep: 
" Whom do you want, O lonely night, 
That you wail the long hours through?" 
And the night would say in its ghostly way: 
" Yoooooooo ! 

Yoooooooo ! 

Yoooooooo!" 

My mother told me long ago 
(When I was a little lad) 
That when the night went wailing so, 
Somebody had been bad; 
And then, when I was snug in bed, 
Whither I had been sent, 
With the blankets pulled up round my head, 
I'd think of what my mother 'd said, 
And wonder what boy she meant ! 
And "Who's been bad to-day?" I'd ask 
Of the wind that hoarsely blew, 
And the voice would say in its meaningful way 
" Yoooooooo ! 

Yoooooooo ! 

Yoooooooo!" 

That this was true I must allow — 
You'll not believe it, though! 
Yes, though I'm quite a model now, 
I was not always so. 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 47 

And if you doubt what things I say, 
Suppose you make the test; 
Suppose, when you've been bad some day 
And up to bed are sent away 
From mother and the rest — 
Suppose you ask, "Who has been bad?" 
And then you'll hear what's true; 
For the wind will moan in its ruefulest tone: 
" Yoooooooo ! 

Yoooooooo! 

Yoooooooo!" 

Eugene Field. 



JACK FROST 

The Frost looked forth one still, clear night, 
And whispered, "Now I shall be out of sight; 
So, through the valley, and over the height, 

In silence I'll take my way. 
I will not go on like that blustering train, 
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain, 
That make so much bustle and noise in vain, 

But I'll be as busy as they!" 

So he flew to the mountain, and powdered its crest; 
He lit on the trees, and their boughs he drest 
In diamond beads — and over the breast 

Of the quivering lake, he spread 
A coat of mail, that it need not fear 
The downward point of many a spear 
That he hung on its margin, far and near, 

Where a rock could rear its head. 

He went to the windows of those who slept, 
And over each pane, like a fairy, crept; 



48 FOURTH YEAR 

Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepped, 

By the light of the morn were seen 
Most beautiful things; there were flowers and trees; 
There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees ; 
There were cities with temples and towers ; and these 

All pictured in silver sheen! 

But he did one thing that was hardly fair. 
He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there 
That all had forgotten for him to prepare, 

"Now, just to set them a-thinking, 
I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he, 
"This costly pitcher I'll burst in three; 
And the glass of water they've left for me 

Shall 'tchick!' to tell them I'm drinking!" 

Hannah F. Gould, 



SEPTEMBER 1 

The golden-rod is yellow; 

The corn is turning brown; 
The trees in apple orchards 

With fruit are bending down. 

The gentian's bluest fringes 

Are curling in the sun; 
In dusty pods the milkweed 

Its hidden silk has spun. 

The sedges flaunt their harvest, 
In every meadow nook; 

And asters by the brook-side 
Make asters in the brook. 

1 Copyright, 1892, by Roberts Brothers. 



MEMORY SELECTIONS « 

From dewy lanes at morning 

The grapes' sweet odors rise; 
At noon the roads all flutter 

With yellow butterflies. 

By all these lovely tokens 

September days are here, 
With summer's best of weather, 

And autumn's best of cheer. 

But none of all this beauty 
Which floods the earth and air 

Is unto me the secret 

Which makes September fair. 

' T is a thing which I remember; 

To name it thrills me yet; 
One day of one September 

I never can forget. 

Helen Jackson. 



THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH 

Under a spreading chestnut-tree 
The village smithy stands; 

The smith, a mighty man is he, 
With large and sinewy hands; 

And the muscles of his brawny arms 
Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp, and black, and long, 

His face is like the tan; 
His brow is wet with honest sweat, 

He earns whate'er he can, 



£0 FOURTH YEAR 

And looks the whole world in the face, 
For he owes not any man. 

Week in, week out, from morn till night, 
You can hear his bellows blow; 

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, 
With measured beat and slow, 

Like a sexton ringing the village bell, 
When the evening sun is low. 

And children coming home from school 
Look in at the open door; 

They love to see the flaming forge, 
And hear the bellows roar, 

And catch the burning sparks that fly 
Like chaff from a threshing-floor. 

He goes on Sunday to the church, 
And sits among his boys; 

He hears the parson pray and preach, 
He hears his daughter's voice, 

Singing in the village choir, 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 

It sounds to him like her mother's voice, 

Singing in Paradise! 
He needs must think of her once more, 

How in the grave she lies; 
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 

A tear out of his eyes. 

Toiling, — rejoicing, — sorrowing, 
Onward through life he goes; 
Each morning sees some task begin, 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 51 

Each evening sees it close; 
Something attempted, something done, 
Has earned a night's repose. 

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 

For the lesson thou hast taught ! 
Thus at the flaming forge of life 

Our fortunes must be wrought; 
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 

Each burning deed and thought. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



THE CHILDREN'S HOUR 

Between the dark and the daylight, 
When the night is beginning to lower, 

Comes a pause in the day's occupations, 
That is known as the Children's Hour. 

I hear in the chamber above me 

The patter of little feet, 
The sound of a door that is opened, 

And voices soft and sweet. 

From my study I see in the lamplight, 
Descending the broad hall stair, 

Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, 
And Edith with golden hair. 

A whisper, and then a silence : 
Yet I know by their merry eyes 

They are plotting and planning together 
To take me by surprise. 



52 FOURTH YEAR 

A sudden rush from the stairway, 

A sudden raid from the hall ! 
By three doors left unguarded 

They enter my castle wall ! 

They climb up into my turret 

O'er the arms and back of my chair; 

If I try to escape, they surround me; 
They seem to be everywhere. 

They almost devour me with kisses, 
Their arms about me entwine, 

Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen 
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine ! 

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, 
Because you have scaled the wall, 

Such an old mustache as I am 
Is not a match for you all ! 

I have you fast in my fortress, 

And will not let you depart, 
But put you down into the dungeon 

In the round-tower of my heart. 

And there I will keep you forever, 

Yes, forever and a day, 
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, 

And moulder in dust away! 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 



THE BLUEBIRD 1 

I know the song that the bluebird is singing, 
Out in the apple-tree where he is swinging, 

1 By permission of the author. 

\S ' * 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 53 

Brave little fellow ! the skies may be dreary, 
Nothing cares he while his heart is so cheery. 

Hark ! how the music leaps out from his throat ! 
Hark ! was there ever so merry a note ? 
Listen awhile, and you'll hear what he's saying, 
Up in the apple-tree, swinging and swaying: 

"Dear little blossoms, down under the snow, 
You must be weary of winter, I know ; 
Hark! while I sing you a message of cheer, 
Summer is coming, and spring-time is here! 

"Little white snowdrops, I pray you, arise; 
Bright yellow crocus, come, open your eyes; 
Sweet little violets hid from the cold, 
Put on your mantles of purple and gold : 
Daffodils, daffodils! say, do you hear? 
Summer is coming, and spring-time is here!" 

Emily Huntington Miller. 



THE WIND AND THE MOON 

Said the Wind to the Moon, "I will blow you out! 

You stare 

In the air 

As if crying Beware, 
Always looking what I am about : 
I hate to be watched ; I will blow you out ! 



99 



The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon. 
So, deep 
On a heap 
Of clouds, to sleep 



54 FOURTH YEAR 

Down lay the Wind, and slumbered soon, 
Muttering low, "I've done for that Moon!" 

He turned in his bed : she was there again ! 

On high 

In the sky 

With her one ghost-eye 
The Moon shone white and alive and plain : 
Said the Wind, "I will blow you out again!" 

The Wind blew hard, and the Moon grew slim. 
" With my sledge 

And my wedge 

I have knocked off her edge! 
I will blow," said the Wind, "right fierce and grim, 
And the creature will soon be slimmer than slim!" 

He blew and he blew, and she thinned to a thread. 
" One puff 

More's enough 

To blow her to snuff! 
One good puff more where the last was bred, 
And glim, glimmer, glum will go that thread!" 

He blew a great blast, and the thread was gone. 

In the air 

Nowhere 

Was a moonbeam bare; 
Larger and nearer the shy stars shone: 
Sure and certain the Moon was gone! 

The Wind he took to his revels once more; 
On down 
And in town, 
A merry-mad clown, 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 55 

He leaped and holloed with whistle and roar — 
When there was that glimmering thread once more! 

He flew in a rage — he danced and blew ; 

But in vain • 

Was the pain 

Of his bursting brain, 
For still the Moon-scrap the broader grew 
The more that he swelled his big cheeks and blew. 

Slowly she grew — till she filled the night, 

And shone 

On her throne 

In the sky alone 
A matchless, wonderful, silvery light, 
Radiant and lovely, the queen of the night. 

Said the Wind, " What a marvel of power am I ! 

With my breath, 

In good faith, 

I blew her to death ! — 
First blew her away right out of the sky, 
Then blew her in: what a strength am I!" 

But the Moon she knew nought of the silly affair; 

For, high 

In the sky 

With her one white eye, 
Motionless miles above the air, 
She never had heard the great Wind blare. 

George Macdonald. 



56 FOURTH YEAR 

THE CROW 1 

Oho ! oho ! Sir Sable-Plume, 

With your glossy coat, 

And your grating note, 

And you? darkly mysterious air of gloom; 

Now that the north winds keenly blow, 

And the valleys and hills are white with snow, 

Why don't you wing 

To the land of spring, 

Away to the south, away, away, 

From the cold and the ice and the wintry day? 

To a bird of brain 

It ought to be plain 

That it must be pleasanter to caw 

Where the warm sun shines 

On the blossoming vines, 

By the grassy banks of the Chickasaw, 

Than here from the tops of the chilly pines. 

And oh, to think of the orange-trees, 

And the palms of the isles of the Caribbees! 

And then how nice 

To breathe the spice 

That floats on every waft of the breeze! 

Never a wind to chill you through, 

And make you shiver and quiver and shake, 

But skies of blue, 

And silver dew, 

And fruits as sweet as a frosted cake. 

You prefer to stay! 

Is that what you say ? 

Well, crows and boys like to have their way. 

Clinton Scollard. 

1 From A Boy's Book of Rhyme, By courtesy of the author. 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 57 

THE SANDPIPER 

Across the narrow beach we flit, 

One little sandpiper and I; 
And fast I gather, bit by bit, 

The scattered driftwood bleached and dry. 
The wild waves reach their hands for it, 

The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, 
As up and down the beach we flit, — 

One little sandpiper and I. 

Above our heads the sullen clouds 

Scud black and swift across the sky; 
Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds 

Stand out the white light-houses high. 
Almost as far as eye can reach 

I see the close-reefed vessels fly, 
As fast we flit along the beach, — 

One little sandpiper and I. 

I watch him as he skims along 

Uttering his sweet and mournful cry; 
He starts not at my fitful song, 

Or flash of fluttering drapery. 
He has no thought of any wrong; 

He scans me with a fearless eye. 
Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong, 

The little sandpiper and I. 

Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night 
When the loosed storm breaks furiously ? 

My driftwood fire will burn so bright ! 
To what warm shelter canst thou fly ? 

I do not fear for thee, though wroth 
The tempest rushes through the sky; 



58 \ FOURTH YEAR 

For are we not God's children both, 
Thou, little sandpiper, and I? 

Celia Thaxter. 



THE BAREFOOT BOY 

Blessings on thee, little man, 
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan! 
With thy turned-up pantaloons, 
And thy merry whistled tunes; 
With thy red lip, redder still 
Kissed by strawberries on the hill; 
With the sunshine on thy face, 
Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace; 
From my heart I give thee joy, — 
I was once a barefoot boy ! 
Prince thou art, — the grown-up man 
Only is republican. 
Let the million-dollared ride! 
Barefoot, trudging at his side, 
Thou hast more than he can buy 
In the reach of ear and eye, — 
Outward sunshine, inward joy; 
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy! 

Oh for boyhood's painless play, 
Sleep that wakes in laughing day, 
Health that mocks the doctor's rules, 
Knowledge never learned of schools, 
Of the wild bee's morning chase, 
Of the wild-flower's time and place, 
Flight of fowl and habitude 
Of the tenants of the wood ; 
How the tortoise bears his shell, 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 59 

How the woodchuck digs his cell, 
And the ground-mole sinks his well; 
How the robin feeds her young, 
How the oriole's nest is hung; 
Where the whitest lilies blow, 
Where the freshest berries grow, 
Where the ground-nut trails its vine, 
Where the wood-grape's clusters shine; 
Of the black wasp's cunning way, 
Mason of his walls of clay, 
And the architectural plans 
Of gray hornet artisans ! 
For, eschewing books and tasks, 
Nature answers all he asks; 
Hand in hand with her he walks, 
Face to face with her he talks, 
Part and parcel of her joy, — 
Blessings on the barefoot boy! 

Oh for boyhood's time of June, 
Crowding years in one brief moon, 
When all things I heard or saw, 
Me, their master, waited for. 
I was rich in flowers and trees, 
Humming-birds and honey-bees; 
For my sport the squirrel played, 
Plied the snouted mole his spade; 
For my taste the blackberry cone 
Purpled over hedge and stone; 
Laughed the brook for my delight 
Through the day and through the night, 
Whispering at the garden wall, 
Talked with me from fall to fall; 
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, 



60 FOURTH YEAR 

Mine the walnut slopes beyond, 
Mine, on bending orchard trees, 
Apples of Hesperides ! 
Still as my horizon grew, 
Larger grew my riches too ; 
All the world I saw or knew 
Seemed a complex Chinese toy, 
Fashioned for a barefoot boy! 

Oh for festal dainties spread, 
Like my bowl of milk and bread; 
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, 
On the door-stone, gray and rude! 
O'er me, like a regal tent, 
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, 
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, 
Looped in many a wind-swung fold; 
While for music came the play 
Of the pied frogs' orchestra; 
And, to light the noisy choir, 
Lit the fly his lamp of fire. 
I was monarch : pomp and joy 
Waited on the barefoot boy! 

Cheerily, then, my little man, 
Live and laugh, as boyhood can! 
Though the flinty slopes be hard, 
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, 
Every morn shall lead thee through 
Fresh baptisms of the dew; 
Every evening from thy feet 
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat: 
All too soon these feet must hide 
In the prison cells of pride, 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 61 

Lose the freedom of the sod, 
Like a colt's for work be shod, 
Made to tread the mills of toil, 
Up and down in ceaseless moil; 
Happy if their track be found 
Never on forbidden ground; 
Happy if they sink not in 
Quick and treacherous sands of sin. 
Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy, 
Ere it passes, barefoot boy ! 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 



LUCY GRAY 

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray: 
And, when I crossed the wild, 
I chanced to see at break of day 
The solitary child. 

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; 
She dwelt on a wide moor, 
— The sweetest thing that ever grew 
Beside a human door ! 

You yet may spy the fawn at play, 
The hare upon the green; 
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray 
Will never more be seen. 



To-night will be a stormv night — - 
You to the town must go; 
And take a lantern, Child, to light 
Your mother through the snow." 



62 FOURTH YEAR 

"That, Father! will I gladly do: 
'T is scarcely afternoon — 
The minster-clock has just struck two, 
And yonder is the moon!" 

At this the Father raised his hook, 
And snapped a faggot-band; 
He plied his work; — and Lucy took 
The lantern in her hand. 

Not blither is the mountain roe: 
With many a wanton stroke 
Her feet disperse the powdery snow, 
That rises up like smoke. 

The storm came on before its time: 
She wandered up and down; 
And many a hill did Lucy climb : 
But never reached the town. 

The wretched parents all that night 
i Went shouting far and wide; 

But there was neither sound nor sight 
To serve them for a guide. 

At day-break on a hill they stood 
That overlooked the moor; 
And thence they saw the bridge of wood, 
A furlong from their door. 

They wept — and, turning homeward, cried, 
"In heaven we all shall meet;" 
— When in the snow the mother spied 
The print of Lucy's feet. 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 63 

Then downwards from the steep hill's edge 
They tracked the footmarks small; 
And through the broken hawthorn hedge, 
And by the long stone-wall; 

And then an open field they crossed : 
The marks were still the same; 
They tracked them on, nor ever lost; 
And to the bridge they came. 

Thev followed from the snowv bank 
Those footmarks, one by one, 
Into the middle of the plank; 
And further there were none ! 

— Yet some maintain that to this day 
She is a living child; 
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray 
Upon the lonesome wild. 

O'er rough and smooth she trips along, 
And never looks behind; 
And sings a solitary song 
That whistles in the wind. 

William Wordsworth, 



FIFTH YEAR 



THE BROOK 



I come from haunts of coot and hern, 

I make a sudden sally, 
And sparkle out among the fern, 

To bicker down a valley. 

By thirty hills I hurry down, 
Or slip between the ridges, 

By twenty thorps, a little town, 
And half a hundred bridges. 

Till last by Philip's farm I flow 
To join the brimming river, 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on for ever. 

I chatter over stony ways, 
In little sharps and trebles, 

I bubble into eddying bays, 
I babble on the pebbles. 

With many a curve my banks I fret 
By many a field and fallow, 

And many a fairy foreland set 
With willow-weed and mallow. 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 65 

I chatter, chatter, as I flow 

To join the brimming river, 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on for ever. 

I wind about, and in and out, 

With here a blossom sailing, 
And here and there a lusty trout, 

And here and there a grayling, 

And here and there a foamy flake 

Upon me, as I travel 
With many a silvery water-break 

Above the golden gravel, 

And draw them all along, and flow 

To join the brimming river, 
For men may come and men may go v 

But I go on for ever. 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson. 



ROBERT OF LINCOLN * 

Merrily swinging on brier and weed, 
Near to the nest of his little dame, 
Over the mountain-side or mead, 
Robert of Lincoln is telling his name; 

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 

Spink, spank, spink; 
Snug and safe is that nest of ours, 
Hidden among the summer flowers. 

Chee, chee, chee. 

! Reprinted from Bryant's Complete Poetical Works y by permission 
of D. Appleton and Company. 



66 FIFTH YEAR 

Robert of Lincoln is gayly drest, 
Wearing a bright black wedding-coat; 
White are his shoulders and white his crest. 
Hear him call in his merry note : 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 
Look, what a nice new coat is mine, 
Sure there was never a bird so fine. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, 

Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, 

Passing at home a patient life, 

Broods in the grass while her husband sings: 

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 

Spink, spank, spink; 
Brood, kind creature; you need not fear 
Thieves and robbers while I am here. 

Chee, chee, chee. 

Modest and shy as a nun is she; 
One weak chirp is her only note. 
Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, 
Pouring boasts from his little throat; 

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 

Spink, spank, spink; 
Never was I afraid of man; 
Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can! 

Chee, chee, chee. 

Six white eggs on a bed of hay, 
Flecked with purple, a pretty sight! 
There as the mother sits all day, 
Robert is singing with all his might: 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 67 

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 

Spink, spank, spink; 
Nice good wife, that never goes out, 
Keeping house while I frolic about. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Soon as the little ones chip the shell, 
Six wide mouths are open for food; 
Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, 
Gathering seeds for the hungry brood. 

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 

Spink, spank, spink; 
This new life is likely to be 
Hard for a gay young fellow like me. 

Chee, chee, chee. 

Robert of Lincoln at length is made 
Sober with work, and silent with care; 
Off is his holiday garment laid, 
Half forgotten that merry air; 

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 

Spink, spank, spink; 
Nobody knows but my mate and I 
Where our nest and our nestlings lie. 

Chee, chee, chee. 

Summer wanes; the children are grown; 
Fun and frolic no more he knows; 
Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone; 
Off he flies, and we sing as he goes: 

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 

Spink, spank, spink; 
When you can pipe that merry old strain, 
Robert of Lincoln, come back again. 

Chee, chee, chee. 

William Cullen Bryant. 



68 FIFTH YEAR 

THE TREE 1 

The tree's early leaf-buds were bursting their brown: — - 
" Shall I take them away ?" said the Frost, sweeping down. 
"No, dear; leave them alone 
Till blossoms here have grown," 
Prayed the tree, while it trembled from rootlet to crown. 

The tree bore its blossoms, and all the birds sung : 
" Shall I take them away ?" said the Wind, as it swung. 
"No, dear; leave them alone 
Till berries here have grown," 
Said the tree, while its leaflets quivering hung. 

The tree bore its fruit in the midsummer glow; 
Said the girl: "May I gather thy berries or no?" 
"Yes, dear; all thou canst see; 
Take them; all are for thee," 
Said the tree, while it bent down its laden boughs low. 

Bjornstjerne Bjornson. 



TO-DAY 

Here hath been dawning 
Another blue day: 

Think, wilt thou let it 
Slip useless away. 

Out of Eternity 

This new day was born; 
Into Eternity 

At night, will return. 

1 From Arne. 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 69 

Behold it aforetime 

No eye ever did ; 
So soon it forever 

Prom all eyes is hid. 

Here hath been dawning 

Another blue day: 
Think, wilt thou let it 

Slip useless away. 

Thomas Carlyle. 

OLD IRONSIDES 

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down ! 

Long has it waved on high, 
And many an eye has danced to see 

That banner in the sky; 
Beneath it rung the battle shout, 

And burst the cannon's roar; — 
The meteor of the ocean air 

Shall sweep the clouds no more. 

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, 

Where knelt the vanquished foe, 
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, 

And waves were white below, 
No more shall feel the victor's tread, 

Or know the conquered knee ; — 
The harpies of the shore shall pluck 

The eagle of the sea ! 

Oh, better that her shattered hulk 

Should sink beneath the wave; 
Her thunders shook the mighty deep, 

And there should be her grave; 



70 FIFTH YEAR 






Nail to the mast her holy flag, 

Set every threadbare sail, 
And give her to the god of storms, 

The lightning and the gale! 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 

OCTOBER'S BRIGHT BLUE WEATHER 

O suns and skies and clouds of June, 
And flowers of June together, 
Ye cannot rival for one hour 
October's bright blue weather, 

When loud the bumble-bee makes haste, 
Belated, thriftless vagrant, 
And Golden-Rod is dving fast, 
And lanes with grapes are fragrant; 

When Gentians roll their fringes tight 
To save them for the morning, 
And chestnuts fall from satin burrs 
Without a sound of warning; 

When on the ground red apples lie 
In piles like jewels shining, 
And redder still on old stone walls 
Are leaves of woodbine twining; 

When all the lovely wayside things 
Their white-winged seeds are sowing, 
And in the fields, still green and fair, 
Late aftermaths are growing; 

When springs run low, and on the brooks, 
In idle golden freighting, 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 71 

Bright leaves sink noiseless in the hush 
Of woods, for winter waiting; 

When comrades see sweet country haunts, 
By twos and twos together, 
And count like misers hour by hour, 
October's bright blue weather. 

O suns and skies and flowers of June, 
Count all your boasts together, 
Love loveth best of all the year 
October's bright blue weather. 

Helen Jackson, 



THE SHIP OF STATE 1 

Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State! 
Sail on, O Union, strong and great! 
Human itv with all its fears, 
With all the hopes of future years, 
Is hanging breathless on thv fate ! 
We know what Master laid thy keel, 
What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, 
Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, 
What anvils rang, what hammers beat, 
In what a forge and what a heat 
Were shaped the anchors of thy hope! 
Fear not each sudden sound and shock, 
'T is of the wave and not the rock ; 
'T is but the flapping of the sail, 
And not a rent made by the gale ! 
In spite of rock and tempest's roar, 
In spite of false lights on the shore, 

1 From The Building of the Ship. 



72 FIFTH YEAR 

Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea! 
Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, 
Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, 
Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, 
Are all with thee, — are all with thee ! 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



THE BUILDERS 

All are architects of Fate, 

Working in these walls of Time ; 

Some with massive deeds and great, 
Some with ornaments of rhyme. 

Nothing useless is, or low ; 

Each thing in its place is best; 
And what seems but idle show 

Strengthens and supports the rest. 

For the structure that we raise, 
Time is with materials filled ; 

Our to-days and yesterdays 

Are the blocks with which we build, 

Truly shape and fashion these; 

Leave no yawning gaps between; 
Think not, because no man sees, 

Such things will remain unseen. 

In the elder days of Art, 

Builders wrought with greatest care 
Each minute and unseen part; 

For the Gods see everywhere. 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 73 

Let us do our work as well, 

Both the unseen and the seen; 
Make the house, where Gods may dwell, 

Beautiful, entire, and clean. 

Else our lives are incomplete, 

Standing in these walls of Time, 
Broken stairways, where the feet 

Stumble as they seek to climb. 

Build to-day, then, strong and sure, 

With a firm and ample base; 
And ascending and secure 

Shall to-morrow find its place. 

Thus alone can we attain 

To those turrets, where the eye 
Sees the world as one vast plain, 

And one boundless reach of sky. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



HOME, SWEET HOME! 

Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, 
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home; 
A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there, 
Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere. 

Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home ! 
There's no place like Home! there's no place like 
Home! 

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain ; 
O, give me my lowly thatched cottage again ! 



! 74 FIFTH YEAR 

The birds singing gayly, that came at my call, — 

Give me them, — and the peace of mind, dearer than all! 

Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home! 
There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home! 

How sweet 't is to sit 'neath a fond father's smile, 
And the cares of a mother to soothe and beguile! 
Let others delight mid new pleasures to roam, 
But give me, oh, give me the pleasures of home ! 

Home! Home! sweet, sweet Home! 
There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home! 

To thee I'll return, overburdened with care; 
The heart's dearest solace will smile on me there; 
No more from that cottage again will I roam; 
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home. 

Home! Home! sweet, sweet Home! 
There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home! 

John Howard Payne. 

WARREN'S ADDRESS TO THE AMERICAN SOLDIERS 

Stand ! the ground 's your own, my braves ! 
Will ye give it up to slaves ? 
Will ye look for greener graves ? 

Hope ye mercy still ? 
What's the mercy despots feel? 
Hear it in that battle-peal ! 
Read it on yon bristling steel! 

Ask it, — ye who will. 

Fear ve foes who kill for hire ? 
Will ye to your homes retire ? 
Look behind you! they're a-fire! 
And, before you, see 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 75 

Who have done it ! — From the vale 
On they come ! — and will ye quail ? 
Leaden rain and iron hail 
Let their welcome be ! 

In the God of battles trust! 

Die we may, — and die we must; 

But, O, where can dust to dust 

Be consigned so well, 
As where Heaven its dews shall shed 
On the martyred patriot's bed, 
And the rocks shall raise their head, 

Of his deeds to tell ! 

John Pierpont. 

LULLABY FOR TITANIA 1 

First Fairy: You spotted snakes with double tongue, 
Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen; 
Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong, 
Come not near our fairy queen. 

Chorus: Philomel, with melodv 

Sing in our sweet lullaby; 
Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby. 
Never harm, 
Nor spell nor charm, 
Come our lovely lady nigh. 
So, good night, with lullaby. 

First Fairy: Weaving spiders, come not here; 

Hence, you long-legg'd spinners, hence! 
Beetles black, approach not near; 
Worm nor snail, do no offence. 
1 From A Midsummer-Night's Dream. 



76 FIFTH YEAR 

Chorus: Philomel, with melody 

Sing in our sweet lullaby; 
Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby. 
Never harm, 
Nor spell nor charm, 
Come our lovely lady nigh. 
So, good night, with lullaby. 

William Shakespeare. 

THE BLUE JAY 1 

O Blue Jay up in the maple tree, 

Shaking your throat with such bursts of glee, 

How did you happen to be so blue ? 

Did you steal a bit of the lake for your crest, 

And fasten blue violets into your vest ? 

Tell me, I pray you, — tell me true ! 

Did you dip your wings in azure dye, 

When April began to paint the sky, 

That was pale with the winter's stay ? 

Or were you hatched from a blue-bell bright, 

'Neath the w-arm, gold breast of a sunbeam light, 

By the river one blue spring day ? 

Blue Jay up in the maple tree, 
A-tossing your saucy head at me, 
With ne'er a word for my questioning, 
Pray, cease for a moment your " ting-a-link," 
And hear when I tell you what I think, — 
You bonniest bit of spring. 

1 think when the fairies made the flowers, 
To grow in these mossy fields of ours, 

1 By permission. 









MEMORY SELECTIONS 77 

Periwinkles and violets rare, 
There was left of the spring's own color blue, 
Plenty to fashion a flower whose hue 
Would be richer than all and as fair. 

So, putting their wits together, they 

Made one great blossom so bright and gay, 

The lilv beside it seemed blurred : 

And then they said, "We w r ill toss it in air; 

So many blue blossoms grow 7 everywhere, 

Let this pretty one be a bird!" 

Susan Hartley Swett. 






SIXTH YEAR 



BEFORE THE RAIN 



We knew it would rain, for all the morn 

A spirit on slender ropes of mist 
Was lowering its golden buckets down 

Into the vapory amethyst 

Of marshes and swamps and dismal fens — 
Scooping the dew that lay in the flowers, 

Dipping the jewels out of the sea, 

To scatter them over the land in showers. 

We knew it would rain, for the poplars showed 
The white of their leaves, the amber grain 

Shrunk in the wind — and the lightning now 
Is tangled in tremulous skeins of rain ! 

Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 



THE FLAG GOES BY 

Hats off ! 

Along the street there comes 

A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums, 

A flash of color beneath the sky: 

Hats off! 

The flag is passing by! 




MEMORY SELECTIONS 79 

Blue and crimson and white it shines, 

Over the steel-tipped, ordered lines. 

Hats off! 

The colors before us fly; 

But more than the flag is passing by. 

Sea-fights and land-fights, grim and great, 
Fought to make and to save the State: 
Weary marches and sinking ships; 
Cheers of victory on dying lips; 

Days of plenty and years of peace; 
March of a strong land's swift increase; 
Equal justice, right, and law, 
Stately honor and reverend awe; 

Sign of a nation, great and strong 
To ward her people from foreign wrong: 
Pride and glory and honor, — all 
Live in the colors to stand or fall. 

Hats off! 

Along the street there comes 

A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums ; 

And loyal hearts are beating high: 

Hats off! 

The flag is passing by ! 

Henry Holcomb Bennett. 

THE YEAR'S AT THE SPRING 1 

The year 's at the spring 
And day 's at the morn ; 
Morning's at seven; 
The hillside's dew-pearled; 

1 From Pippa Passes. 



80 SIXTH YEAR 

The lark's on the wing; 
The snail's on the thorn: 
God's in his heaven — 
All's right with the world! 

Robert Browning 

CONCORD HYMN 

SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE BATTLE MONUMENT, APRIL 19, ] 

By the rude bridge that arched the flood, 
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, 

Here once the embattled farmers stood, 
And fired the shot heard round the world. 

The foe long since in silence slept; 

Alike the conqueror silent sleeps ; 
And Time the ruined bridge has swept 

Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. 

On this green bank, by this soft stream, 

We set to-day a votive stone; 
That memory may their deed redeem, 

When, like our sires, our sons are gone. 

Spirit, that made those heroes dare 
To die, and leave their children free, 

Bid Time and Nature gently spare 
The shaft we raise to them and thee. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 

THE FIRST SNOW-FALL 

The snow had begun in the gloaming, 

And busily all the night 
Had been heaping field and highway 

With a silence deep and white. 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 81 

Every pine and fir and hemlock 
Wore ermine too dear for an earl, 

And the poorest twig on the elm-tree 
Was ridged inch deep with pearl. 

From sheds new-roofed with Carrara 

Came Chanticleer's muffled crow, 
The stiff rails softened to swan's-down, 

And still fluttered down the snow. 

I stood and watched by the window 

The noiseless work of the sky, 
And the sudden flurries of snow-birds, 

Like brown leaves whirling by. 

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn 

Where a little headstone stood ; 
How the flakes were folding it gently, 

As did robins the babes in the wood. 

Up spoke our own little Mabel, 

Saying, "Father, w T ho makes it snow?" 

And I told of the good All-father 
Who cares for us here below. 

Again T looked at the snow-fall 

And thought of the leaden sky 
That arched o'er our first great sorrow, 

When that mound was heaped so high. 

I remembered the gradual patience 
That fell from that cloud like snow, 

Flake by flake, healing and hiding 
The scar that renewed our woe. 



82 SIXTH YEAR 

And again to the child I whispered, 

"The snow that husheth all, 
Darling, the merciful Father 

Alone can make it fall!" 

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her, 
And she, kissing back, could not know 

That my kiss was given to her sister, 
Folded close under deepening snow. 

James Russell Lowell. 



THE COMING OF SPRING 1 

There's something in the air 
That's new and sweet and rare — 
A scent of summer things, 
A whirr as if of wings. 

There's something too that's new 
In the color of the blue 
That's in the morning sky, 
Before the sun is high. 

And though on plain and hill, 
'T is winter, winter still. 
There's something seems to say 
That winter's had its day. 

And all this changing tint, 
This whispering stir and hint 
Of bud and bloom and wing, 
Is the coming of the spring. 

1 Copyright, 1891, by Nora Perry. 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 83 

And to-morrow or to-day 
The brooks will break away 
From their icy, frozen sleep, 
And run and laugh and leap. 

And the next thing, in the woods, 
The catkins in their hoods 
Of fur and silk will stand, 
A sturdv little band. 

And the tassels soft and fine 
Of the hazel will entwine, 
And the elder branches show 
Their buds against the snow. 

So, silently, but swift, 
Above the wintry drift. 
The long days gain and gain, 
Until, on hill and plain, 

Once more, and yet once more 
Returning as before, 
We see the bloom of birth 
Make young a^ain the earth. 

Xora Perry. 

SHERIDAN'S RIDE 

Up from the south at break of day, 

Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, 

The affrighted air with a shudder bore. 

Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door, 

The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar, 

Telling the battle was on once more, 

And Sheridan twenty miles away. 



84 SIXTH YEAR 

And wider still those billows of war 

Thundered along the horizon's bar; 

And louder yet into Winchester rolled 

The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, 

Making the blood of the listener cold, 

As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, 

And Sheridan twenty miles away. 

But there is a road from Winchester town, 

A good broad highway leading down; 

And there, through the flash of the morning light, 

A steed as black as the steeds of night 

Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight; 

As if he knew the terrible need, 

He stretched away with the utmost speed ; 

Hills rose and fell ; but his heart was gay, 

With Sheridan fifteen miles away. 

Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering south, 
The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth; 
Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, 
Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. 
The heart of the steed and the heart of the master 
Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, 
Impatient to be where the battle-field calls ; 
Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, 
With Sheridan only ten miles away. 

Under his spurning feet the road 

Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, 

And the landscape flowed away behind 

Like an ocean flying before the wind, 

And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, 

Swept on with his wild eyes full of fire; 

But lo ! he is nearing his heart's desire, 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 85 

He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, 
With Sheridan only five miles away. 

The first that the general saw were the groups 

Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops. 

What was done ? what to do ? A glance told him both, 

Then striking his spurs, with a terrible oath, 

He dashed down the line, 'mid a storm of huzzas, 

And the wave of retreat cheeked its course there, because 

The sight of the master compelled it to pause. 

With foam and with dust, the black charger was gray, 

By the flash of his eye, and the red nostril's play, 

He seemed to the whole o-reat armv to sav, 

"I have brought you Sheridan all the way 

From Winchester, down to save the dav!" 

Hurrah ! hurrah for Sheridan ! 

Hurrah ! hurrah for horse and man ! 

And when their statues are placed on high, 

Under the dome of the Union sky, 

The American soldier's Temple of Fame; 

There with the glorious General's name, 

Be it said, in letters both bold and bright, 

"Here is the steed that saved the day, 

By carrying Sheridan into the fight, 

From Winchester, twenty miles away ! " 

Thomas Buchanan Read. 

PUCK AND THE FAIRY 1 

Pack: How now, spirit ! whither wander you ? 
Fairy: Over hill, over dale, 

Thorough bush, thorough brier, 
Over park, over pale, 

Thorough flood, thorough fire, 
1 From A Midsummer-Night' *s Dream. 



86 SIXTH YEAR 

I do wander every where, 

Swifter than the moon's sphere; 

And I serve the fairy Queen, 

To dew her orbs upon the green. 

The cowslips tall her pensioners be; 

In their gold coats spots you see; 

Those be rubies, fairy favours, 

In those freckles live their savours. 

I must go seek some dewdrops here, 

And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. 

Farewell, thou lob of spirits; I'll be gone: 

Our Queen and all her elves come here anon. 

William Shakespeare. 

THE QUALITY OF MERCY 1 

The quality of mercy is not strain'd. 

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven 

Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest: 

It blesseth him that gives and him that takes. 

'T is mightiest in the mightiest ; it becomes 

The throned monarch better than his crown. 

His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, 

The attribute to awe and majesty, 

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; 

But mercy is above the sceptred sway; 

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings ; 

It is an attribute to God himself; 

And earthly power doth then show likest God's 

When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, 

Though justice be thy plea, consider this, 

That, in the course of justice, none of us 

Should see salvation. We do pray for mercy, 

1 From The Merchant of Venice. 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 87 

And that same prayer doth teach us all to render 
The deeds of mercy. 

William Shakespeare. 

MAY 

May shall make the world anew ; 
Golden sun and silver dew, 
Money minted in the sky, 
Shall the earth's new garments buy. 
May shall make the orchards bloom; 
And the blossoms' fine perfume 
Shall set all the honey-bees 
Murmuring among the trees. 
May shall make the bud appear 
Like a jewel, crystal clear, 
'Mid the leaves upon the limb 
Where the robin lilts his hymn. 
May shall make the wild flowers tell 
Where the shining snowflakes fell, 
Just as though each snowflake's heart, 
By some secret, magic art, 
Were transmuted to a flower 
In the sunlight and the shower. 
Is there such another, pray, 
Wonder-making month as May? 

Frank Dempster Sherman. 

JULY* 

When the scarlet cardinal tells 
Her dream to the dra^on-flv, 
And the lazy breeze makes a nest in the trees, 
And murmurs a lullaby, 
It is July. 

1 By permission. 



88 SIXTH YEAR 

When the tangled cobweb pulls 
The cornflower's cap awry, 
And the lilies tall lean over the wall 
To bow to the butterfly, 
It is July. 

When the heat like a mist-veil floats, 
And poppies flame in the rye, 
And the silver note in the streamlet's throat 
Has softened almost to a sigh, 
It is July. 

When the hours are so still that time 
Forgets them, and lets them lie 
'Neath petals pink till the night stars wink 
At the sunset in the sky, 
It is July. 

Susan Hartley Swett. 



THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; 
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 

We buried him darkly at dead of night, 
The sods w x ith our bayonets turning; 
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, 
And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; 
But he lay like a, warrior taking his rest, 
With his martial cloak around him. 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 89 

Few and short were the prayers we said, 

And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 

But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, 

And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, 

And smoothed down his lonely pillow, 

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, 

And we far away on the billow ! 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; 
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on 
In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 

But half of our heavy task was done, 
When the clock tolled the hour for retiring; 
And we heard the distant and random gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 
From the field of his fame fresh and gory; 
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, 
But we left him alone with his glory ! 

Charles Wolfe* 



SEVENTH YEAR 



SIR GALAHAD 



My good blade carves the casques of men, 

My tough lance thrusteth sure, 
My strength is as the strength of ten, 

Because my heart is pure. 
The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, 

The hard brands shiver on the steel, 
The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly, 

The horse and rider reel ; 
They reel, they roll in clanging lists, 

And when the tide of combat stands, 
Perfume and flowers fall in showers, 

That lightly rain from ladies' hands. 

How sweet are looks that ladies bend 

On whom their favors fall ! 
For them I battle till the end, 

To save from shame and thrall ; 
But all my heart is drawn above, 

My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine; 
I never felt the kiss of love, 

Nor maiden's hand in mine. 
More bounteous aspects on me beam, 

Me mightier transports move and thrill; 
So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer 

A virgin heart in work and will. 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 01 

When down the stormy crescent goes, 

A light before me swims, 
Between dark stems the forest glows, 

I hear a noise of hymns. 
Then by some secret shrine I ride; 

I hear a voice, but none are there; 
The stalls are void, the doors are wide, 

The tapers burning fair. 
Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, 

The silver vessels sparkle clean, 
The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, 

And solemn chaunts resound between. 

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres 

I find a magic bark. 
I leap on board; no helmsman steers; 

I float till all is dark. 
A gentle sound, an awful light ! 

Three angels bear the Holy Grail; 
With folded feet, in stoles of white, 

On sleeping wings they sail. 
Ah, blessed vision ! blood of God ! 

My spirit beats her mortal bars, 
As down dark tides the glory slides, 

And starlike mingles with the stars. 

When on my goodly charger borne 

Thro' dreaming towns I go, 
The cock crows ere the Christinas morn, 

The streets are dumb with snow. 
The tempest crackles on the leads, 

And, ringing, springs from brand and mail; 
But o'er the dark a glory spreads, 

And gilds the driving hail. 



92 SEVENTH YEAR 

I leave the plain, I climb the height; 

No branchy thicket shelter yields; 
But blessed forms in whistling storms 

Fly o'er waste fens and windv fields. 

A maiden knight — to me is given 

Such hope, I know not fear; 
I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven 

That often meet me here. 
I muse on joy that will not cease, 

Pure spaces clothed in living beams, 
Pure lilies of eternal peace, 

Whose odors haunt my dreams; 
And, stricken by an angel's hand, 

This mortal armor that I wear, 
This weight and size, this heart and eyes, 

Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air. 

The clouds are broken in the sky, 

And thro' the mountain-walls 
A rolling or^an-harmonv 

Swells up and shakes and falls. 
Then move the trees, the copses nod, 

Wings flutter, voices hover clear: 
'O just and faithful knight of God! 

Ride on ! the prize is near.' 
So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; 

By bridge and ford, by park and pale, 
All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide, 

Until I find the Holy Grail. 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson. 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 93 



A SONG OF LOVE 1 



Say, what is the spell, when her fledgings are cheeping, 

That lures the bird home to her nest ? 
Or wakes the tired mother, whose infant is weeping, 

To cuddle and croon it to rest ? 
What the magic that charms the glad babe in her arms, 

Till it cooes with the voice of the dove ? 
*T is a secret, and so let us whisper it low — 
And the name of the secret is Love. 
For I think it is Love, 
For I feel it is Love, 
For I'm sure it is nothing but Love! 

Say, whence is the voice that when anger is burning, 

Bids the whirl of the tempest to cease ? 
That stirs the vexed soul w T ith an aching — a yearning 

For the brotherly hand-grip of peace ? 
Whence the music that fills all our being — that thrills 

Around us, beneath, and above ? 
'T is a secret : none knows how it comes, or it goes — 
But the name of the secret is Love. 
For I think it is Love, 
For I feel it is Love, 
For I'm sure it is nothing but Love! 

Say, whose is the skill that paints valley and hill, 

Like a picture so fair to the sight ? 
That flecks the green meadow with sunshine and shadow, 

Till the little lambs leap with delight ? 
'T is a secret untold to hearts cruel and cold, 

Though 't is sung, by the angels above, 
In notes that ring clear for the ears that can hear — 

And the name of the secret is Love. 

1 Used by permission of the Macmillan Company. 



94 SEVENTH YEAR 

For I think it is Love, 
For I feel it is Love, 
For I'm sure it is nothing but Love! 

Lewis Carroll, 



THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS 

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, 

Sails the unshadowed main, — 

The venturous bark that flings 
On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings 
In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, 

And coral reefs lie bare, 
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. 

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl ; 

Wrecked is the ship of pearl ! 

And every chambered cell, 
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, 
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, 

Before thee lies revealed, — 
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed ! 

Year after year beheld the silent toil 

That spread his lustrous coil; 

Still, as the spiral grew, 
He left the past year's dwelling for the new, 
Stole with soft step its shining archway through, 

Built up its idle door, 
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. 

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, 
Child of the wandering sea, 
Cast from her lap, forlorn ! 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 95 

From thy dead lips a clearer note is born 
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn ! 

While on mine ear it rings, 
Through the deep eaves of thought I hear a voice that 

sings : — 

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, 

As the swift seasons roll ! 

Leave thy low-vaulted past ! 
Let each new temple, nobler than the last, 
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, 

Till thou at length art free, 
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea ! 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER 

O say, can you see. by the dawn's early light, 

What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleam- 
ing — 
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the clouds of 
the fight, 
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly stream- 
ing! 
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, 
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there; 
O ! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave 
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave ? 

On that shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep, 
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, 

Y\ hat is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, 
As it fitfullv blows, now conceals, now discloses ? 



96 SEVENTH YEAR 

Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, 
In full glory reflected now shines on the stream ; 
5 T is the star-spangled banner ; O long may it wave 
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave ! 

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore 

That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion 
A home and a country should leave us no more ? 

Their blood has washed out their ipul footsteps' pollution. 
No refuge could save the hireling and slave 
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave; 
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave 
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave. 

O ! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand 

Between their loved homes and the war's desolation ! 
Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n-rescued land 
Praise the power that hath made and preserved us a 
nation. 
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, 
And this be our motto — "In God is our trust" : 
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave 
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave. 

Francis Scott Key, 

SCYTHE SONG 

Mowers, weary and brown, and blithe, 
What is the word methinks ye know, 
Endless over-word that the Scythe 
Sings to the blades of the grass below ? 
Scythes that swing in the grass and clover, 
Something, still, they say as they pass ; 
What is the word that, over and over, 
Sings the Scythe to the flowers and grass ? 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 97 

Hush, ah hush, the Scythes are saying, 
Hush, and heed not, and fall asleep ; 
Hush, they say to the grasses swaying, 
Hush, they sing to the clover deep ! 
Hush — 't is the lullaby Time is singing — 
Hush, and heed not, for all things pass, 
Hush, ah hush! and the Scythes are swinging 
Over the clover, over the grass ! 

Andrew Lang. 

THE ARROW AND THE SONG 

I shot an arrow into the air, 
It fell to earth, I knew not where; 
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight 
Could not follow it in its flight. 

I breathed a song into the air, 
It fell to earth, I knew not where; 
For who has sight so keen and strong 
That it can follow the flight of song ? 

Long, long afterward, in an oak 
I found the arrow, still unbroke; 
And the song, from beginning to end, 
I found again in the heart of a friend. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 

SPRING 1 

Ah, how wonderful is the advent of the Spring! — the 
great annual miracle of the blossoming of Aaron's rod, re- 
peated on myriads and myriads of branches ! — the gentle 
progression and growth of herbs, flowers, trees, — gentle, 

1 From Kavanagh, 



98 SEVENTH YEAR 

and yet irrepressible, — which no force can stay, no vio- 
lence restrain, like love, that wins its way and cannot be 
withstood by any human power, because itself is divine 
power. If Spring came but once a century, instead of once 
a year, or burst forth with the sound of an earthquake, and 
not in silence, what wonder and expectation would there be 
in all hearts to behold the miraculous change ! 

But now the silent succession suggests nothing but neces- 
sity. To most men, only the cessation of the miracle would 
be miraculous, and the perpetual exercise of God's power 
seems less wonderful than its withdrawal would be. We 
are like children who are astonished and delighted only by 
the second-hand of the clock, not by the hour-hand. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



SUMMER 1 

In the fields and woods, meanwhile, there w r ere other 
signs and signals of the summer. The darkening foliage; 
the embrowning grain ; the golden dragon-fly haunting the 
blackberry-bushes; the cawing crows, that looked down 
from the mountain on the cornfield, and waited day after 
day for the scarecrow to finish his work and depart; and 
the smoke of far-off burning woods, that pervaded the air 
and hung in purple haze about the summits of the moun- 
tains, — these were the vaunt-couriers and attendants of 
the hot August. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



AUTUMN 2 






The brown autumn came. Out of doors, it brought to 
the fields the prodigality of the golden harvest, — to the 

1 From Kavanagh. 2 Ibid. 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 99 

forest, revelations of light, — and to the sky, the sharp air, 
the morning mist, the red clouds at evening. Within doors, 
the sense of seclusion, the stillness of closed and curtained 
windows, musings by the fireside, books, friends, conver- 
sation, and the long, meditative evenings. To the farmer, 
it brought surcease of toil, — to the scholar, that sweet 
delirium of the brain which changes toil to pleasure. It 
brought the wild duck back to the reedy marshes of the 
south; it brought the wild song back to the fervid brain of 
the poet. Without, the village street was paved with gold ; 
the river ran red with the reflection of the leaves. Within, 
the faces of friends brightened the gloomy walls; the re- 
turning footsteps of the long-absent gladdened the thresh- 
old; and all the sweet amenities of social life again re- 
sumed their interrupted reign. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



WINTER 1 

The first snow came. How beautiful it was, falling so 
silently, all day long, all night long, on the mountains, on 
the meadows, on the roofs of the living, on the graves of the 
dead ! All white save the river, that marked its course by 
a winding black line across the landscape; and the leafless 
trees, that against the leaden sky now revealed more fully 
the wonderful beauty and intricacy of their branches ! 

What silence, too, came with the snow, and what seclu- 
sion ! Every sound was muffled, every noise changed to 
something soft and musical. No more trampling hoofs, 
— no more rattling wheels ! Only the chiming sleigh-bells, 
beating as swift and merrily as the hearts of children. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 

1 From Kavanagh. 



100 SEVENTH YEAR 

THE FINDING OF THE LYRE 

There lay upon the ocean's shore 
What once a tortoise served to cover i 
A year and more, with rush and roar, 
The surf had rolled it over, 
Had played with it, and flung it by, 
As w^ind and weather might decide it, 
Then tossed it high where sand-drifts dry 
Cheap burial might provide it. 

It rested there to bleach or tan, 

The rains had soaked, the suns had burned it; 

With many a ban the fisherman 

Had stumbled o'er and spurned it; 

And there the fisher-girl would stay, 

Conjecturing with her brother 

How in their play the poor estray 

Might serve some use or other. 

So there it lay, through wet and dry 
As empty as the last new sonnet, 
Till by and by came Mercury, 
And, having mused upon it, 
"Why, here," cried he, "the thing of things 
In shape, material, and dimension ! 
Give it but strings, and, lo, it sings, 
A wonderful invention!" 

So said, so done; the chords he strained, 
And, as his fingers o'er them hovered, 
The shell disdained a soul had gained, 
The lyre had been discovered. 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 101 

O empty world that round us lies, 
Dead shell, of soul and thought forsaken, 
Brought we but eyes like Mercury's, 
In thee what songs should waken ! 

James Russell Lowell. 



COLUMBUS 

Behind him lay the gray Azores, 
Behind the Gates of Hercules; 
Before him not the ghost of shores, 
Before him only shoreless seas. 
The good mate said : " Now must we pray, 
For lo ! the very stars are gone. 
Brave Admiral, speak, what shall I say?" ' 
"Why, say, 'Sail on! sail on! and on! 5 " 

"My men grow mutinous day by day; 
My men grow ghastly wan and weak." 
The stout mate thought of home ; a spray 
Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek. 

"What shall I say, brave Admiral, say, 
If we sight naught but seas at dawn?" 

" Why, you shall say at break of day, 

'Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!'" 

They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow, 
Until at last the blanched mate said : 
"Why, now not even God would know 
Should I and all my men fall dead. 
These very winds forget their way, 
For God from these dread seas is gone. 
Now speak, brave Admiral, speak and say" — 
He said: "Sail on! sail on! and on!" 



102 SEVENTH YEAR 

They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate: 
"This mad sea shows his teeth to-night 
He curls his lip, he lies in wait, 
With lifted teeth, as if to bite! 
Brave Admiral, say but one good word : 
What shall we do when hope is gone?" 
The words leapt as a leaping sword : 
"Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!" 

Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck, 
And peered through darkness. Ah, that night 
Of all dark nights ! And then a speck — 
A light ! A light ! A light ! A light ! 
It grew, a starlit flag unfurled ! 
It grew to be Time's burst of dawn. 
He gained a world ; he gave that world 
Its grandest lesson: "On! sail on!" 

Joaquin Miller, 

THE NAME OF OLD GLORY 1 



Old Glory ! say, who 

By the ships and the crew, 

And the long, blended ranks of the gray and the blue, 

Who gave you, Old Glory, the name that you bear 

With such pride everywhere 

As you cast yourself free to the rapturous air 

And leap out full-length, as we're wanting you to ? — 

Who gave you that name, with the ring of the same, 

And the honor and fame so becoming to you ? — 

Your stripes stroked in ripples of white and of red, 

With your stars at their glittering best overhead — 

1 From Home-Folks. Copyright 1900. Used by special permission of 
the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company. 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 103 

By day or by night 
Their delightfulest light 

Laughing down from their little square heaven of blue! — ■ 
Who gave you the name of Old Glory ? — say, who — 
Who gave you the name of Old Glory ? 

The old banner lifted, and faltering then 

In vague lisps and whispers fell silent again. 

II 

Old Glory, — speak out ! — we are asking about 
How you happened to "favor" a name, so to say, 
That sounds so familiar and careless and gay 
As we cheer it and shout in our wild breezy way — 
W r e — the crowd, every man of us, calling you that — 
We — - Tom, Dick, and Harry, each swinging his hat 
And hurrahing * Old Glory !" like you were our kin, 
W T hen — Lord ! — we all know we're as common as sin ! 
And yet it just seems like you humor us all 
And waft us your thanks, as we hail you and fall 
Into line, with you over us, waving us on 
Where our glorified, sanctified betters have gone. — 
And this is the reason we're wanting to know — 
(And we're wanting it so ! — 

Where our own fathers went we are willing to go.) — 
Wlio gave you the name of Old Glory — O-ho! — 
Who gave you the name of Old Glory? 

The old flag unfurled with a billowy thrill 

For an instant, then wistfully sighed and was stilL 

in 

Old Glory: the story we're wanting to hear 

Is what the plain facts of your christening were, — 



104 SEVENTH YEAR 






For your name — just to hear it, 
Repeat it, and cheer it, 's a tang to the spirit 
As salt as a tear ; — 

And seeing you fly, and the boys marching by, 
There's a shout in the throat and a blur in the eye 
And an aching to live for you always — or die, 
If, dying, we still keep you waving on high. 
And so, by our love 
For you, floating above, 

And the scars of all wars and the sorrows thereof, 

Who gave you the name of Old Glory, and why 

Are we thrilled at the name of Old Glory ? 

Then the old banner leaped, like a sail in the blast, 
And fluttered an audible answer at last 

IV 

And it spake, with a shake of the voice, and it said : — 
By the driven snow-white and the living blood-red 
Of my bars, and their Heaven of stars overhead — 
By the symbol conjoined of them all, skyward cast, 
As I float from the steeple, or flap at the mast, 
Or droop o'er the sod where the long grasses nod, — 
My name is as old as the glory of God. 
So I came by the name of Old Glory. 

James Whitcomb Riley. 

A SONG OF CLOVER 

I wonder what the Clover thinks, — 
Intimate friend of Bob-o '-links, 
Lover of Daisies slim and white, 
Waltzer with Buttercups at night; 
Keeper of Inn for traveling Bees, 
Serving to them wine-dregs and lees, 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 105 



Left by the Royal Humming Birds, 
Who sip and pay with fine-spun words; 
Fellow with all the lowliest, 
Peer of the gayest and the best; 
Comrade of winds, beloved of sun, 
Kissed by the Dew-drops, one by one; 
Prophet of Good-Luck mystery 
By sign of four which few may see; 
Symbol of Nature's magic zone, 
One out of three, and three in one; 
Emblem of comfort in the speech 
Which poor men's babies early reach; 
Sweet by the roadsides, sweet by rills, 
Sweet in the meadows, sweet on hills, 
Sweet in its white, sweet in its red, — 
Oh, half its sweetness cannot be said ; — 
Sweet in its every living breath, 
Sweetest, perhaps, at last, in death! 
Oh ! who knows what the Clover thinks ? 
No one! unless the Bob-o'-links ! 

"S axe Holm" (Helen Jackson). 

A VISIT FROM THE SEA 1 

Far from the loud sea beaches 
Where he goes fishing and crying, 
Here in the inland garden 
Why is the sea-gull flying ? 

Here are no fish to dive for; 
Here is the corn and lea; 
Here are the green trees rustling. 
Hie away home to sea! 

1 By permission of Charles Scribner's Sons. 



306 SEVENTH YEAR 

Fresh is the river water 
And quiet among the rushes; 
This is no home for the sea-gull, 
But for the rooks and thrushes. 



Pity the bird that has wandered ! 
Pity the sailor ashore! 
Hurry him home to the ocean, 
Let him come here no more! 

High on the sea-cliff ledges 

The white gulls are trooping and crying; 

Here among rooks and roses, 

Why is the sea-gull flying? 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 



FAREWELL! A LONG FAREWELL TO ALL MY 
GREATNESS ! * 

Farew r ell ! a long farewell, to all my greatness ! 
This is the state of man : to-day he puts forth 
The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms, 
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him; 
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, 
And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely 
His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root, 
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd, 
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, 
This many summers in a sea of glory, 
But far beyond my depth. My high-blown pride 
At length broke under me, and now has left me, 
Weary and old with service, to the mercy 

1 From Henry the Eighth. 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 107 

Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me. 
Vain pomp and glory of this world I hate ye ! 
I feel my heart new open'd. O, how wretched 
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours! 
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, 
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, 
More pangs and fears than wars or women have; 
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, 
Never to hope again. 

William Shakespeare. 



JOG ON, JOG OTSP 

Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way, 

And merrily hent the stile-a; 
A merry heart goes all the day 

Your sad tires in a mile-a. 

William Shakespeare. 

1 From The Winter's Tale. 



EIGHTH YEAR 



THE BUGLE SONG 1 



The splendor falls on castle walls 

And snowy summits old in story; 
The long light shakes across the lakes, 

And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O, hark, O, hear! how thin and clear, 
And thinner, clearer, farther going ! 

O, sweet and far from cliff and scar 
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! 

Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying, 

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O love, they die in yon rich sky, 

They faint on hill or field or river; 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 

And grow for ever and for ever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
And answ T er, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 

x\lfred, Lord Tennyson. 

1 From The Princess. 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 109 

BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC 

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord : 
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath 

are stored ; 
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift 

sword : 
His truth is marching on. 

I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling 

camps ; 
They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and 

damps ; 
I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring 

lamps. 
His day is marching on. 

I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel : 
"As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace 

shall deal; 
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his 

heel, 
Since God is marching on." 

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call 

retreat ; 
He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment-seat : 
Oh ! be swift, my soul, to answer Him ! be jubilant, my feet ! 
Our God is marching on. 

In the beautv of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, 
With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me : 
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, 
While God is marching on. 

Julia Ward Howe. 



110 EIGHTH YEAR 

RECESSIONAL 

God of our fathers, known of old, 
Lord of our far-flung battle line — 
Beneath whose awful hand we hold 
Dominion over palm and pine — 
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 
Lest we forget — lest we forget ! 

The tumult and the shouting dies — 
The Captains and the Kings depart — 
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, 
An humble and a contrite heart. 
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 
Lest we forget — lest we forget ! 

Far-called our navies melt away — 
On dune and headland sinks the fire — 
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday 
Is one with Nineveh and Tvre ! 
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, 
Lest we forget — lest we forget ! 

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose 
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe — 
Such boastings as the Gentiles use, 
Or lesser breeds without the Law — 
Lord God of Hosts be with us yet, 
Lest we forget — lest we forget ! 

For heathen heart that puts her trust 
In reeking tube and iron shard — 
All valiant dust that builds on dust, 
And guarding calls not Thee to guard, 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 111 

For frantic boast and foolish word, 
Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord ! 

Rudyard Kipling. 



GETTYSBURG SPEECH 

Fourscore and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth 
on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and 
dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. 
Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether 
that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, 
can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that 
war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as a 
final resting-place for those who here gave their lives that 
that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper 
that we should do this. But in a larger sense we cannot 
dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this 
ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled 
here, have consecrated it far above our poor power to add 
or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember, 
what we say here, but it can never forget what they did 
here. It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated here to 
the unfinished work w T hich they who fought here have thus 
far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedi- 
cated to the great task remaining before us, — that from 
these honored dead we take increased devotion to that 
cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion, 
— that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not 
have died in vain, — that this nation, under God, shall 
have a new birth of freedom, — and that government of the 
people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from 

the earth. 

Abraham Lincoln. 






112 EIGHTH YEAR 

ON BOOKS 1 

There is no magic about this process of enriching one's 
self by absorbing the best books ; it is simply a matter of 
sound habits patiently formed and persistently kept up. 
Making the most of one's time is the first of these habits; 
utilizing the spare hours, the unemployed minutes, no less 
than those longer periods which the more fortunate enjoy. 
To "take time by the forelock" in this way, however, one 
must have his book at hand when the precious minute ar- 
rives. There must be no fumbling for the right volume; no 
waste of time because one is uncertain what to take up 
next. The waste of opportunity which leaves so many 
people intellectually barren who ought to be intellectually 
rich, is due to neglect to decide in advance what direction 
one's reading shall take, and neglect to keep the book of the 
moment close at hand. The biographer of Lucy Larcom 
tells us that the aspiring girl pinned all manner of selections 
of prose and verse which she wished to learn at the sides of 
the window beside which her loom was placed ; and in this 
way, in the intervals of work, she familiarized herself with 
a great deal of good literature. A certain man, now widely 
known, spent his boyhood on a farm, and largely educated 
himself. He learned the rudiments of Latin in the evening, 
and carried on his study during working hours by pinning 
ten lines from Virgil on his plough, — a method of refresh- 
ment much superior to that which Homer furnished the 
ploughman in the well-known passage in the description of 
the shield. These are extreme cases, but they are capital 
illustrations of the immense power of enrichment which is 
inherent in fragments of time pieced together by intelligent 
purpose and persistent habit. 

Hamilton Wright Mabie. 

1 From Books and Culture. Used by permission of the publishers, 
Dodd, Mead and Company. 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 113 

ON BOOKS 1 

The conviction deepens in me that the best possible edu- 
cation which any man can acquire is an intimate acquain- 
tance with these few great minds who have escaped the 
wrecks of time and have become, with the lapse of years, 
a kind of impersonal wisdom, summing up the common 
experience of the race and distilling it drop by drop into 
the perfect forms of art. 

The man who knows his Homer thoroughly knows more 
about the Greeks than he who has familiarized himself 
with all the work of the archaeologists and the philologists 
and mythologists of the Homeric age. 

The man who has mastered Dante has penetrated the 
secret of medievalism ; the man who counts Shakespeare 
as his friend can afford to leave most of the books about 
Elizabethan England unread. 

To really know Homer, Dante, Shakespeare and Goethe 
is to know the best the world has thought and said and done, 
is to enter into that inheritance of experience and knowledge 
which is the truest and at bottom the only education. 

Most of us know too many writers, and waste our 
strength in a vain endeavor to establish relations of inti- 
macy with a multitude of men, great and small, w T ho pro- 
fess to have some claim upon us. 

It is both pleasant and wise to have a large acquaintance, 
to know life broadly, and at its best, but our intimate 
friends can never, in the nature of things, be many. 

We may know a host of interesting people, but we can 
really live with but a few. And it is these few and faithful 
ones, whose names I see in the dying light of the old year 
and the first, faint gleam of the new. 

Hamilton Wright Mabie. 

1 From My Study Fire. Used by permission of the publishers, 
Dodd, Mead and Company. 



114 EIGHTH YEAR 



OPPORTUNITY 



This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream : — 

There spread a cloud of dust along a plain; 

And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged 

A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords 

Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince's banner 

Wavered, then staggered back, hemmed in by foes. 

A craven hung along the battle's edge, 

And thought, "Had I a sw r ord of keener steel — 

That blue blade that the king's son bears, — but this 

Blunt thing — !" he snapt and flung it from his hand, 

And lowering crept away and left the field. 

Then came the king's son, wounded, sore bestead, 

And weaponless, and saw the broken sword, 

Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand, 

And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout 

Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down, 

And saved a great cause that heroic day. 

Edward Rowland Sill. 



BREATHES THERE THE MAN WITH SOUL SO DEAD ■ 

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, 
Who never to himself hath said, 

This is my own, my native land ? 
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, 
As home his footsteps he hath turned 

From wandering on a foreign strand ? 
If such there breathe, go, mark him well ; 
For him no minstrel raptures swell; 
High though his titles, proud his name, 
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim, — 

1 From The Lay of the Last Minstrel. 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 115 

Despite those titles, power, and pelf, 

The wretch, concentred all in self, 

Living, shall forfeit fair renown, 

And, doubly dying, shall go down 

To the vile dust from whence he sprung, 

Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. 

Sir Walter Scott. 



HARK, HARK ! THE LARK l 

Hark, hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 

And Phoebus gins arise 
His steeds to water at those springs 

On chalic'd flowers that lies; 
And winking Mary-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes; 
With every thing that pretty is, 

My lady sweet, arise, 
Arise, arise. 

William Shakespeare, 



AT MORNING 2 

The day returns and brings us the petty round of irritat- 
ing concerns and duties. Help us to play the man, help us 
to perform them with laughter and kind faces, let cheerful- 
ness abound with industry. Give us to go blithely on our 
business all this day, bring us to our resting beds weary and 
content and undishonored, and grant us in the end the gift 
of sleep. 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 

1 From Cymbeline. 

2 Used by permission of Charles Scribner's Sous. 



116 EIGHTH YEAR 

THE SONG OF THE CAMP 

"Give us a song!" the soldiers cried, 
The outer trenches guarding, 
When the heated guns of the camps allied 
Grew weary of bombarding. 

The dark Redan, in silent scoff, 
Lay, grim and threatening, under; 

And the tawny mound of the Malakoff 
No longer belched its thunder. 

There was a pause. A guardsman said, 
" We storm the forts to-morrow ; 
Sing while we may, another day 
Will bring enough of sorrow." 

They lay along the battery's side, 

Below the smoking cannon: 
Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde, 

And from the banks of Shannon. 

They sang of love, and not of fame; 

Forgot was Britain's glory: 
Each heart recalled a different name, 

But all sang "Annie Laurie." 

Voice after voice caught up the song, 

Until its tender passion 
Rose like an anthem, rich and strong, — 

Their battle-eve confession. 

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, 
But, as the song grew louder, 

Something upon the soldier's cheek 
Washed off the stains of powder. 




MEMORY SELECTIONS 117 

Beyond the darkening ocean burned 

The bloody sunset's embers, 
While the Crimean valleys learned 

How English love remembers. 

And once again a fire of hell 

Rained on the Russian quarters, 
With scream of shot, and burst of shell, 

And bellowing of the mortars! 

And Irish Nora's eyes are dim 

For a singer, dumb and gory; 
And English Mary mourns for him 

Who sang of "Annie Laurie." 

Sleep, soldiers ! still in honored rest 

Your truth and valor wearing : 
The bravest are the tenderest, — 

The loving are the daring. 

Bayard Taylor. 



THE ANGLER'S REVEILLE 1 

What time the rose of dawn is laid across the lips of night, 
And all the drowsy little stars have fallen asleep in light; 
'T is then a wandering wind awakes, and runs from tree to 

tree, 
And borrows words from all the birds to sound the reveille. 

This is the carol the Robin throws 

Over the edge of the valley; 

Listen how boldly it flows, 

Sally on sally: 

1 From The Toiling of Felix and Other Poems, Copyright, 1900, by 
Charles Scribner's Sous. 



118 EIGHTH YEAR 

Tirra-lirra, 
Down the river, 
Laughing water 
All a-quiver. 
Day is near, 
Clear, clear. 
Fish are breaking, 
Time for waking, 
Tup, tup, tup ! 
Do you hear? 
All clear — 
Wake up ! 

The phantom flood of dreams has ebbed and vanished with 

the dark, 
And like a dove the heart forsakes the prison of the ark; 
Now forth she fares through friendly woods and diamond 

fields of dew, 
While every voice cries out " Rejoice ! " as if the world were 
new. 

This is the ballad the Bluebird sings, 
Unto his mate replying, 
Shaking the tune from his wings 
While he is flying: 

Surely, surely, surely, 

Life is dear 

Even here. 

Blue above, 

You to love, 

Purely, purely, purely. 

There's wild azalea on the hill, and roses down the dell, 
And just one spray of lilac still abloom beside the w^ell; 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 119 

The columbine adorns the rocks, the laurel buds grow pink, 
Mong the stream white arums gleam, and violets bend to 
drink. 

This is the song of the Yellowthroat, 

Fluttering gaily beside you ; 

Hear how each voluble note 

Offers to guide you : 

Which way, sir ? 
I say, sir, 
Let me teach you, 
I beesech you ! 
Are you wishing 
Jolly fishing ? 
This way, sir! 
I'll teach you. 

Then come, my friend, forget your foes, and leave your 

fears behind, 
And wander forth to try your luck, with cheerful, quiet 

mind ; 
For be your fortune great or small, you'll take what God 

may give, 
And all the day your heart shall say, " 'T is luck enough to 
live." 

This is the song the Brown Thrush flings 
Out of his thicket of roses ; 
Hark how it warbles and rings, 
Mark how it closes : 

Luck, luck, 

What luck? 

Good enough for me! 

I'm alive, you see. 



120 EIGHTH YEAR 



Sun shining, 
No repining; 
Never borrow 
Idle sorrow; 
Drop it! 
Cover it up ! 
Hold your cup ! 
Joy will fill it, 
Don't spill it, 
Steady, be ready, 
Good luck! 

Henry van Dyke. 



CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! 

O Captain ! my Captain ! our fearful trip is done, 

The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is 

won ; 
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, 
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and 
daring ; 

But O heart ! heart ! heart ! 

O the bleeding drops of red, 

Where on the deck my Captain lies, 

Fallen cold and dead. 

O Captain ! my Captain ! rise up and hear the bells ; 
Rise up — for you the flag is flung — for you the bugle 

trills, 
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths — for you the 

shores acrowding, 
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces 

turning; 



MEMORY SELECTIONS 121 

Here Captain ! dear father ! 
This arm beneath your head ! 
It is some dream that on the deck 
You've fallen cold and dead. 

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, 
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will, 
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and 

done, 
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; 

Exult, O shores, and ring O bells! 

But I, with mournful tread, 

Walk the deck my Captain lies, 

Fallen cold and dead. 

Walt Whitman. 



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